


gourmand

by Maharetchan



Series: impromptu [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breathplay, Cannibalism, Cooking, Established Relationship, Food Kink, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Rough Sex, Will Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 105,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will learns how to cook; Hannibal observes.</p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2179545">you can handle the truth inside of me</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. charcuterie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Underground](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underground/gifts).



> I did not plan a sequel to [you can handle the truth inside of me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2179545), but then it happened, and once again it turned into a monster that is currently ruining my life.  
> The majority of the story has been already written and will be published, hopefully, very swiftly.
> 
> It is better to read the previous story to fully understand the context of this one, but not obligatory.
> 
> Many thanks to the amazing [starkassembled](http://starkassembled.tumblr.com/) for beta.  
> Please, leave a comment if you enjoy this work. I also have a tumblr ([laurelcastilloz](http://laurelcastilloz.tumblr.com/)) if you wanna reach me there.

Hannibal moves around the room with the dangerous elegance of a lion; he puts on his night clothes slowly and carefully, before slipping under the covers next to him, opening his book in one swift motion: every muscle of his body obeys him without any waste of energy. Will observes him for a long time without a word, enraptured, like he always is lately, by how much of him he's noticing only after so long: he pays more attention now, tries to read Hannibal's body like the man reads his, to know all about him just by the way he moves.

 

There's something in Hannibal that has always reminded him of a feline: his walk, the way he approaches him and hovers over him in a threatening and, yet, curious way; like he's still trying to decide whether to eat him or not, scenting him to smell both his excitement and his fear.

 

Will knows his body has been shaped by years of carefully crafted exercise, by his activity as a killer: his shoulders and his back are toned and strong, his arms can trap Will against him and make it nearly impossible for him to escape; his hands could snap his neck effortlessly if he wanted. And the threat is always there, lurking behind the facade of domesticity they have built. 

 

But Hannibal never acts on any of those subtle hints: he prefers to handle him with a carefully balanced combination of roughness and care, using the same amount gentleness and violence to seduce and coax him. Will, on the other hand, grows tired soon of that, of manipulation and balance. And likes to dig his nails into his skin until he draws blood, bites him hard enough to make him forget their games and brings out the most honest and raw parts of him.

 

Will takes a deep breath and relaxes against the pillows, closing his eyes for a moment to let his thoughts sink deep into his mind; melting with the monsters already there in a mix that manages to blend perfectly and becomes also cathartic for him. It's the most cruel irony to finally be able to have some peace only because Hannibal's darkness drowns everything else.

 

Hannibal's face is completely expressionless while he reads, and Will can never stop himself from wondering what he's thinking about: if his current thoughts are as twisted as Will's are, if his mind too is inhabited by restless demons and their hungers; or if he's able to tune out from his deepest urges and live only in the present moment.

 

He's enclosed inside himself, protected by all his barriers, and reaching him sometimes can be impossible for Will as well; Hannibal built a whole life on his forts, and they're hard to penetrate.

 

He bites his lips and opens his eyes again, staring for one moment longer, before moving a little closer to him.

 

“If you could have any part of me, what would you choose?”

 

Hannibal doesn't even flinch at first, and finishes reading one last page before turning his attention completely to him, setting the book aside and looking at him with sudden interest, just like a tiger that just spotted a prey and its preparing to strike; Will shivers and lick his lips.

 

“What kind of scenario are we considering?”

 

Will shrugs, then takes off his shirt and throws it unceremoniously on the floor, lowering the covers to expose his chest and abdomen: he's rewarded by a deep frown from Hannibal, who's probably resisting the temptation to get up and fold the shirt carefully, that is soon replaced by a focused and attentive expression, by hungry eyes exploring his body.

 

“If you could have any part of me without killing me, what would you take?”

 

For a while, Hannibal doesn't move, merely stares, imagining organs, veins, muscles and bones covered by his skin, and Will can feel it, can almost see what's of inside him right in front of his eyes just like he does. Hannibal is still a doctor and a surgeon, someone who worked with bodies his whole life, and is used to both patching them up and breaking them down to their most elemental parts in his mind and with his hands; to dissect them and then sew them together again: his gaze is clinical and fevered at the same time, and Will enjoys every moment of it.

 

When he slides above him and starts palming his chest, Will knows he's thinking about how he would get inside him, what he would use to break his ribcage and cut him open to get what he wants, careful not to damage his organs in the process; how he would butcher him while he's still alive and breathing under him: Will smiles and lazily slides a hand through his hair until Hannibal finally looks up to him.

 

“Your liver, perhaps.”

 

“I don't think my liver is in a great shape.”

 

“Yes, I am aware of your bad habits and of how poorly you take care of yourself.”

 

Will doesn't stop smiling, not even when Hannibal stares at him like he wants to chastise him for the ironic shining in his eyes. He takes one of his hands and presses it again on his chest; they're big, warm and when the nails scratch his skin lightly, Will inhales.

 

“Why my liver then?”

 

Hannibal kisses his collarbone, making his way down on his chest, scenting his naked skin and pressing his lips against it, until he reaches his abdomen and stops right above where his liver is; he licks at the spot and sinks his nail into his sides to keep him still, sucks a red mark and then licks it again, until Will is pulling lightly at his hair and breathing hard under him.

 

“For the Greeks, the liver was the seat of the darkest human emotions, the ones that drive a man to action; but for many other cultures, it symbolized strength and courage. I think it's appropriate for you: you have your darkness, your wrath and your cruelty, but there is no denying your bravery, how impossibly beautiful and strong you are.”

 

Will exhales and imagines himself cut open on Hannibal's kitchen counter while he cooks his liver, offers him a raw bite of his own flesh, beaming with pride at how readily he would accept it. It's not unusual for him to think that, but always in a very abstract way; now he forces himself to consider it a possible reality, how would it feel like if it could actually happen.

 

“What else would you take?”

 

Hannibal puts both hands flat on the center of his chest and presses lightly; Will's nails run along his arms, enjoying how the pressure resonates in his bones.

 

“Your lungs should be in a fairly decent shape, since you don't smoke; your kidneys, I suspect, wouldn't differ much from the condition of your liver, but maybe I could still work with them.”

 

Will nods and allows Hannibal to start kissing him again, exposing his throat to his lips and teeth, while he wonders how much it would hurt to be ripped apart while still alive and conscious, if Hannibal would anesthetize him before starting, if he would kiss his organs and smear blood all over his face before removing them, then getting down on him and kissing him too, sharing the blood with him.

 

When he tries to picture how Hannibal would kill him, he sees himself being strangled or smothered, air and life slowly leaving his body; perhaps Hannibal would break his neck: fast and painless. He never imagined slowly bleeding out on a table with Hannibal's hands wrists deep in his intestines.

 

“You would empty me and take everything you could, if you knew I wouldn't die from it?”

 

Hannibal looks up to him, curiously examining the expression on his face; but he doesn't look perfectly in control, the light in his life is almost wild. Will swallows nervously at it.

 

“You know me, I could hardly resist the temptation under such circumstances. You are a valuable and irreplaceable individual, Will, I wouldn't waste you as food, unless, of course, your death in the process could be avoided somehow. It's an interesting fantasy to indulge in, considering how much reality differs from it: there is no harm, only an intellectual exercise. Can you imagine how it would feel like?”

 

Will looks away while Hannibal slides off of him.

 

“Not completely, no. I could never really imagine the pain I'd feel; but I can picture the scene, of course. I can see it happen if I close my eyes: my chest open, my ribs hanging on either side of it like wings, and your hands deep inside me, taking out what you want, showing it to me. I'm sure it shouldn't feel as intimate and poetic as it does.”

 

How amused Hannibal looks should probably concern him, but he's not even surprised anymore when it doesn't: they've reached an equilibrium where talking openly about their darkest sides, about how killing the other would feel, is the only way to exorcize them and be able to handle the weight of them in their lives.

 

“You are exceptionally morbid tonight, Will. Is there a reason?”

 

He smiles and relaxes again against the softness of the pillows, caressing his naked stomach absently.

 

“No, there isn't one. Maybe I just like the look on your face when you fantasize about butchering me.”

 

There's a long pause between them: Hannibal is not touching him or looking at him, and Will is still lost in his mind, too focused on what lurks in the shadows there to think about anything else and move to other subjects. He wants to poke Hannibal more, to slip under his skin as deeply as the man is under his.

 

He always has these fantasies of what Hannibal could do to him if he really snapped, if Will managed to remove his control entirely: would he kill him then? Would he wrap his hands around his neck and choke him to death, would he hit him until his face was reduced to a bloody pulp? And he imagines what Hannibal would have to do to provoke the same reaction in him.

 

Will reaches down to grab his shirt and put it on again, suddenly aware of the chill in the room, now that Hannibal's warmth is gone.

 

“Is there any particular recipe you'd like to prepare using my liver?”

 

“There are many; it would be difficult to settle only on one: it would either be a very well thought choice or something decided on a whim.”

 

Will nods absently and thinks about the dishes Hannibal cooked for him using liver, lungs, heart, kidneys, remembering only a few names. But the taste of every single one of them is imprinted into his mind and in his mouth, coming back to him while he thinks about them, making his mouth water and his stomach clench in disgust, because he knows what he ate and also knows that, deep down, he doesn't care.

 

Would his own body taste any different to him? Would the nausea be too great to overcome? Would he vomit? He can't even begin to imagine it.

 

“How would you kill me, if you had to eat my body after?”

 

Hannibal breathes slowly for a few moments, eyes closed, and then moves incredibly fast, too fast for him to react in time, and pins Will down on the bed under him, one hand pressing heavily on his chest while the other holds a knife to his throat; he hadn’t notice him take the little blade he keeps there from the drawer of the nightstand.

 

Will doesn't move, doesn't even dare breathing too fast or too loudly: he just stares back at him, perfectly calm, cold steel against his neck and Hannibal's whole body weight on him. The man is not holding down his arms, he could break free if he wanted to: but instead he waits to see what is going to happen.

 

“It'd cut your throat, obviously, to collect the blood. It's the preferred method of slaughter in many cultures.”

 

His eyes are almost alight with curiosity and with a savage warm hunger, but also calm, like he's just demonstrating something to Will, letting him know that he has no intentions of hurting him; so he relaxes as much as he can, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He's not scared and never looks at the blade, despite how much he feels its threatening bite on his skin.

 

“When I was a boy, after I moved to Paris with my uncle and aunt, I lived next to a Jewish butcher: he was a kind man in his late fifties, who spoke Russian, and that was the only person other than my uncle who could somehow understand what I said during those first months, before I learned French fluently. Sometimes I helped him clean his shop for a few francs, and a few times he allowed me to watch him perform shechita, the ritual slaughter. Do you know how it is done, Will?”

 

Will swallows and shakes his head as much as the blade allows him to.

 

“No, but I'm sure you're going to enlighten me about it.”

 

“The shochet severs the major arteries and veins in one swift motion with an incredibly sharp and long blade called a sakin, so the animal is allowed to bleed out very quickly. If he pauses even for just one moment, if the blade slips or if he makes a forbidden movement, the meat is considered non kosher and cannot be eaten by Jews: imagine the amount of control it must require. They say the animals barely realize they're dying; the loss of blood is so sudden it causes a massive shock that freezes the beasts. It's considered a respectful and almost painless death. Obviously, this is not the right blade to perform it, not nearly long or sharp enough, and the location is inconvenient, your blood would be wasted. But I am sure you imagination will work out all the correct details.”

 

Hannibal's eyes are alight with a barely contained excitement: Will can count every lash, can see every wrinkle and every scar. He puts his hand on the one holding the knife, not to stop him or pull it away; instead he increases the pressure until he's almost sure it's going to break the skin. Hannibal breathes deeply above him.

 

“Have you ever done it?”

 

The smile Hannibal gives him is in equal parts amused, condescendingly infuriaring and arousing; he's already half hard, and how the man is looking at him makes him bite his lips to force down a moan.

 

“Of course; after some insistence, I managed to convince the butcher to teach me: he allowed me to practice on old and diseased animals that were declared non koscher. He was a very good teacher and I learned quickly. Perhaps I simply had a gift for it, a particular inclination.”

 

“You know what I mean: have you ever done it to one of your victims?”

 

Hannibal grins at him and the hand still pressing on his chest becomes suddenly heavier, just as the bite of the knife becomes less and less bearable. He doesn't reply to his question, and Will sighs, still holding the hand wielding the weapon, caressing the warm skin of it, reading his answer right on his face, picturing the few fortunate ones that got, at least, to die quickly and without too much pain.

 

“Is that how you would kill me? Quickly bleeding me out before my body and my brain could understand they were dying?”

 

The question seems to displease him, because Hannibal glares down on him and inhales deeply. And then he's gone.

 

When the blade slides away, Will can't help a moan of relief and the fingers that rises up to massage the sore spot on his throat: Hannibal doesn't reply to that either, suddenly colder, uncomfortable, his mind pierced by who knows what thoughts that erased the sensual tension that was running between them; he slides under the covers again and looks at nothing, avoiding his eyes even when Will climbs on top of him and holds onto his shoulders, but not shying away from the contact.

 

The man massages his exposed legs almost mechanically, habit and desire kicking in; his fingers warm, his nails sliding along his skin. When he finally looks up, he's not smiling anymore and the light is gone from his eyes, leaving them hard and focused on his face.

 

“Would you like to die like that, Will?”

 

Will considers it for a while, picturing in his mind, what it would be like to be held by his hair and have then cruelly pulled back, and then suddenly the cold, merciless bite of the steel cutting through his flesh. It would be fast and easy; he wonders if he'd have the time to look at Hannibal one last time and enough strength to grab him before dying.

 

“No, I don't think I would.”

 

Hannibal frowns and Will puts one of his hands around his throat, applying a little pressure.

 

“I wouldn't want to die so quickly I couldn't even register it. Especially if you were the one to do it. I'd want you to hurt me enough to give my last moments a meaning, to make me feel that I'm dying, that you are killing me; I wouldn't want to just slip into oblivion like that. And you would have to honor my body after. Every part of me. I don't want to be wasted and discarded; I want you to turn my death and my corpse into something beautiful.”

 

“You would let me kill you, if I promised you to honor your remains?”

 

“Killing me wouldn't be the worst thing you could do to me, especially when you've already done worse and I'm still here. And if I could decide how to die, be killed by you doesn't sound so bad.”

 

Hannibal is rendered speechless and motionless by his words for a moment; before he kisses him hard, holding him close, nails digging into the small of his back and keeping him still against him. Will bites his lip until he draws blood and licks it away when the man pulls back. 

 

He feels dizzy and electric; something dangerous is running between him and Hannibal and he doesn't know what to do with it, how to handle the pressure he feels in the look the man gives him.

 

He has never looked more like a beast to him than in this moment, while he's licking his lips and they both imagine them stained with Will's blood, running down his chin, his hands tearing this flesh apart and eating him raw: he looks desperate and wild like a wolf or a big cat, ready to attack him. 

 

He's beautiful, Will thinks, he's the most dangerous and beautiful creature I've ever seen. His chest is filled by a sudden warm weight that crushes him; he has to close his eyes and wait for the wave to retreat before he can look at him again, but his fingers trace his profile lovingly, needing the contact.

 

“I'd do the same to you, you know? I'd consume your body, keep you inside me. I'd make sure nothing of you goes to waste.”

 

Hannibal groans, pulls at his hair so hard Will almost cries out in pain, but at the same time leans into the burn of it.

 

When he looks up, Will sees that blank, scheming expression on his face that he never noticed before discovering who Hannibal was, that cruel and famished look that makes him feel debased and worshiped at the same time.

 

They kiss again, slower this time, before Hannibal gently pushes him away and turns off the light on his side of the bed, lying down without sparing Will another look or saying anything. He can feel that something very, very thin was on the verge of breaking right there, and he settles down slowly to sleep without arguing, because he's not sure he wants to find out what could happen if they kept playing this game.

 

Will lies down on his back for a long, long time without sleeping, and knows Hannibal is awake too, but showing him only his back, his white nightshirt bright even in the darkness; the distance between them seems far wider that the space in the bed. He doesn't know what to do with it.

 

They're both aware of the other, of their own thoughts, of the weight that presses on top of them, but cannot engage them, not now, because the storm in their minds is too strong and it would drown them both, erasing them completely from the face of the earth. 

 

“Will you think about it? About how you would prepare my liver and then let me know your decision?”

 

All he gets from him is a long sigh, he chooses to interpret it as a “yes”. Will wants to touch him, kiss him, hold him close, but doesn't move, and turns away as well in the end, so he doesn't have to look at him and feel the wall growing between them.

 

When he's about to drift into oblivion, he feels Hannibal's strong arms surrounding him, holding him like he needs it more than Will does, like he was craving the contact, even if it sets fire to feelings neither on them can control: Hannibal kisses the nape of his neck and traps him against his chest. Will smiles at that, and finally relaxes, holding his hand.

 

He's asleep in a few minutes.


	2. garde manger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the excellent Ash for beta.  
> If you enjoy this story, please leave a comment, it would make me very happy.

Will is annoyed by how disappointed and almost betrayed he feels when he opens the door of Hannibal's house to find it dark and empty: it's almost eight; he should be home by now, busying himself in the kitchen to make them dinner. But at the thought of food, his stomach clenches painfully and bile rises to his mouth, making him gag.

 

The house is too quiet, and when the silence overcomes the noises of the street, in his head he can still hear Jack yelling, after they returned to the FBI, while he struggled to keep his cool and not to start yelling back; Will can feel a migraine building up and almost blinding him with bright pain, making him stumble his way through the corridors, until he arrives to the drawing room and flops unceremoniously on the couch.

 

He rarely goes on crime scenes these days, since he has finally developed the ability to say no to Crawford, or to avoid him when needed, but sometimes the man still manages to persuade him, especially when he sends Beverly to talk him into helping. 

 

He shudders and grinds his teeth almost painfully when he remembers the mutilated body he had to examine, feels dirty and violated when the memories of the killer's mind flood his own again. His temples pulse painfully, and he feels like shit. 

 

He wishes Hannibal were there so at least he wouldn't have to be alone.

 

When he finally manages to move again, Will goes upstairs and turns on the stereo in the bedroom, putting on the first opera he can find, focusing on it to drown the voices in his head and the pain, while he showers. The waters washes away the smell of death and gore and helps him relax, loosening his muscles, but doesn't do much for his headache or for the nightmares that start creeping in on him.

 

He calls Abigail to pass the time and the genuine cheer he can hear in her voice is like a balm on his battered body: she sounds different since she has gone off to college, less scared and tied up in her past traumas; and hearing her like this, with a beautiful carefree tone in her voice, makes how increasingly distant and removed from him and her old life she's starting to become more bearable. 

 

Will wants her to be safe and happy, and it's better for her to be away; only seeing her once in a while it's easier. It puts everything in perspective.

 

“You sound terrible, by the way. Are you ok?”

 

“Yeah, just a bad crime scene; hadn't been at one in a while, you know. Don't worry; I'll be fine, I've seen worse.”

 

Abigail doesn't reply, but he can almost see her frown in front of him through the phone: her concern manages to upset and endear him at the same time. 

 

“Is Hannibal not back yet? Have you tried to call him?”

 

I wouldn't know what to tell him and I'm not sure I want to know where he is and what he's doing; he thinks all that, but doesn't say it. Instead he changes the subject and turns the conversation back to her life at school, how she's doing there: her recollections of menial and simple things ease the tension that was building up inside him again; but he still keeps thinking about Hannibal, about the killer and his victim, blood and death and violence filling his vision, until he doesn't think he can handle it anymore and tells the girl he'll call her again another time.

 

Will goes back to lie down on the couch with one arm covering his eyes, trying to disconnect from his surroundings, focusing on the music filling the silence and pushing away the monsters: it's hard, because he can't stop thinking, no matter how much he tries; his head hurts and his eyes are watery because of the pain. He regulates his breaths and inhales the scent of the house as much as he can, to capture some sort of peace from his surroundings.

 

He's starting to doze off into an agitated half sleep, when Hannibal comes back, startling him.

 

“It's late, where have you been?”

 

His tone sounds bitter and almost angry, more than he had intended it to be; Hannibal's face twists into a displeased expression, before going back to its placid indifference. Will feels bad immediately and pulls himself up so he can sit and finally take a good look at him.

 

The man doesn't say anything while Will puts into focus the state he's in: he's not wearing his tie and has his jacket wrapped on his arm; there's blood on the cuffs of his white shirt, red and bright even in the dull, yellow light around them, and he looks incredibly tired despite the perfect mask of composure he still holds up. His eyes are heavy and turbid, but Hannibal is still more put together than he tends to look on a regular, good day.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, I am. No need to worry, the blood has nothing to do with me: one of my patients had an emergency, attempted suicide. I managed to find him in time with the help of his family, but I had to wait at the hospital to know about his conditions and speak to the police.”

 

Will nods, and when the man leaves the room without another glance, he follows him to the small guest bathroom, where he watches him thoughtfully wash his hands, pulling up his cuffs until the blood disappears from his sight. His headache is still strong, but with Hannibal there, he has something else to think about and focusing on that helps dulling the pain, or at least puts it in the back of his mind.

 

“Is your patient going to be okay?”

 

“He will be, yes, at least physically. He'll have to be admitted involuntarily for a while, hopefully it'll be beneficial.”

 

“I have some experience in how little that usually helps.”

 

Hannibal nods absently, not needing to dig further into his words, and he tries not to think of his own forced stay at a hospital, nor of his more recent convalescence after recovering from the encephalitis.

 

“Every patient is unique; you should know it better than most.”

 

Will knows the conversation about this is over, and doesn't try to pry more information out of him: Hannibal's voice sounded mechanical and distant while describing the events, like he has already put it all behind himself, leaving only the fatigue of the day weighting on his body; and blood stains on his shirt. Will stares at his face, at the blank expression on it and wonders what he's thinking about, what moves in the darkness inside him: he lies against the wall when the man comes closer and puts a hand on the crook of his neck, observing him closely.

 

Hannibal inhales his scent like a wolf, smelling the residues of murder and violence on him without a doubt: his eyes are dark and dangerous when he pulls back, but lets him go without doing anything else.

 

“You look just as tired as I do. Are you alright?”

 

“Just an awful headache, I went on a crime scene today.”

 

Will sees something that resembles jealousy pass quickly in his gaze and is oddly taken aback by it, like he wasn't expecting Hannibal to be capable of these kinds of feelings.

 

“Have you taken something for it?”

 

Will shakes his head, and Hannibal sighs, emotions under control once again when he motions Will to follow him into the kitchen: he takes the pills the man gives him without even bothering to know what they are, and watches Hannibal putting on a kettle and making tea while Will retreats to his usual corner.

 

Neither of them brings up the crime scene, and Hannibal doesn't bother asking any question about it; if it was particularly gruesome or how the killer felt like in Will's mind: it's like they don't want to rock the boat and adventure in territories that could open more wounds and conflicts between them. Will has this incredibly stupid idea that talking or not about the horrors he sees in his work, could make a difference in Hannibal's decision to kill or stop, no matter how well he knows that it has nothing to do with him and he can't do anything about it.

 

He stares at Hannibal's back and wants desperately to touch him, to run his hand across it and feel the texture of his shirt, slip fingers under it and scratch his skin to anchor himself to reality. He needs to know they're both real, because when he closes his eyes he swarming into a suffocating buzzing noise that threatens to choke him, and the shapes all around him are blurred behind his closed eyes, taking different forms that look far too much like monsters in his mind.

 

But he remains seated, and just accepts the mug Hannibal holds out for him and nods absently when the man excuses himself to go shower and change. Their fingers touch and Will holds on to them for a long moment, until something softens in the hardness on Hannibal's face and the ghost of a smile curls his lips. Will has time to drink three cups of the pungent and spicy herbal tea and to go relieve his full bladder before he returns, looking significantly better and more relaxed in his house clothes.

 

Will watches him open the fridge and retrieve a small package he settles on the counter, starting to prepare all he needs to cook; he observes attentively for a while before getting up: the tea made him hungry, cleaned his stomach and his head from the lingering tendrils of the gruesome spectacle he saw today, and the headache is gone. He feels oddly flippant when he approaches Hannibal.

 

“What are you going to cook for us tonight?”

 

“It' quite late, I had bigger plans for this dinner, but I'll have to make due with something quick. Have you ever eaten braised lungs?”

 

“I thought you couldn't buy lungs for eating, so no, I don't think I have.”

 

Hannibal displays them on the wood counter and Will swallows deeply, trying not to think about the possible provenience of the meat: he knows Hannibal is still not killing, mostly because he's waiting for the best opportunity to ask Will for his blood for another experiment, but he can't help flinching no matter what, because he can never be truly sure and the suspect doesn't want to leave him. The lungs look pink and tender, positively nonthreatening, reminding him of the color of the sky he sees from his house in the early morning: he tries to cling to that image to relax.

 

“I know enough butchers to be able to acquire some from time to time: these are veal's.”

 

It occurs to him now that Hannibal rarely explains to him what he does while he's cooking: maybe because Will never seemed interested in knowing, but at the same time, he never tried to include him in this passion like he did for others. And it just leaves an odd taste in his mouth; makes him aware of the tension in his posture, of the avoidance the man seems to radiate, though he tries to hide it as well as he manages. Hannibal went to such terrible lengths to ensure Will would be on his side after he figured him out, so he fails to understand why he never made that leap, what is it that he's not seeing.

 

“You never tried to teach me how to cook. Why?”

 

“Simply because you never expressed any interest in learning. Does it bother you?”

 

Will shrugs and goes to stand right next to him; Hannibal is both curious and surprised when their eyes meet. He licks his lips and goes to wash his hands, aware of the man's eyes on his back.

 

“No, I wouldn't say it bothers me, but I do wonder why. Seems like something you'd like to share with me... now that I can really appreciate it.”

 

Hannibal inclines his head and grabs Will's chin lightly, with almost no pressure: his hand smells faintly of blood and he wants to put the fingers in his mouth, suck on them until they'll be clean, bite them off and eat them for dinner. 

 

The man's eyes are dark, unreadable; Will feels just as exposed as the meat on the counter and wonders if Hannibal ever thinks about him when he cooks someone else's organs, about consuming him instead.

 

“Can I help you with tonight's dinner?”

 

Hannibal releases him and studies him for a moment more: doors open inside him and Will feels ghosts of a distant past moving inside him, something that upsets the usual calm inside him, but not enough to show all the cracks in his armor; Will doesn't ask again, waiting and carefully controlling his breaths. He stares at the scars on his forearms when Hannibal pulls up his sleeves, and, like usual, he has to resist the urge to touch them, to kiss them and feel the texture of them on his tongue. 

 

In the end, the man nods.

 

“If you insist, I will oblige. Come here: the lungs have to be cleaned before being cut for cooking.”

 

Hannibal lets him do almost the whole process, guiding him patiently and explaining him what he has to do and how not to ruin the meat: Will fills the lungs with salted water through the trachea, feeling the meat swollen and become slippery under his fingers; he watches the bloody liquid flowing out of them when he puts them upside down, repeats the process again until Hannibal is satisfied with the results.

 

Will is too busy, to look at him properly, but there's something uneasy in his body when Hannibal holds him from behind, his chest against his back, while he watches him squeeze the remaining water out of the lungs by pressing them on the cutter with both hands, while Hannibal grips his waist and keeps him close. It's intimate, like Will imagines killing with him would be like for him, finally knowing how he does it, seeing it and experiencing it first hand, without having to imagine it through the empathy glimpses he catches from him.

 

He casually wonders if Hannibal is afraid of it, of exposing too much of himself to his eyes when he's not completely sure how Will is going to react to what the man will show him. 

 

When he's done, Hannibal lets him go and gently pushes him out of the way so he can proceed to cut the meat: he's an expert with the knife; Will watches his hands and thinks they have the same care and tenderness when they touch him while they're in bed and when he's slicing organs apart.

 

“Who taught you how to cook?”

 

Hannibal looks up and his eyes reflect onto the blade, his fingers are digging deep into the pink flesh under them and Will has the vision of his own lungs getting cut out directly from his chest while he's still alive. He swallows deeply and takes a step back without meaning to, despite the fact that Hannibal remains completely still.

 

He's not sure he understands where this sudden sense of danger comes from, and it's so rare with Hannibal lately, because now he knows all the tricks of his mind, that he's overwhelmed by it. He wants to run and submit himself to the knife at the same time and doesn't know which one would be more stupid to do. Will is peeking too far behind the curtain, and something is telling him to back off for now, before he gets hurt or sees something he's not ready to process.

 

Hannibal's hands relax and he puts the knife away, but his eyes are deep and endlessly dark, dangerous and sharp like the blade he was holding, and he's far away, so far away Will can only see shadows and confused shapes around him. It freezes him where he's standing, makes his throat dry and he can't relax even when Hannibal attempts a smile that moves his features and softens them. But not completely.

 

“A woman called Marie, who was employed by my uncle as a cook, was my first teacher. She was a tremendous influence on me; I owe her very much.”

 

Will watches him going back to his work without another word and knows his presence in the kitchen is not needed anymore, that Hannibal would like to be left alone. He masters up all his courage and takes deep breaths to calm his heart rate; then approaches him, and kisses his temple, holding him just for a moment. He doesn't why he's doing this, feels like the mouse in the fairytale, kissing his lion, aware of the claws that could slash his throat when he least expects it, of the teeth that could chew him until he'll be nothing.

 

Hannibal's eyes are matte and unreadable, but his lips have a faint trace of a real smile now: like he knows Will understands, and is pleased with him. He feels his gaze pointed at his back while he leaves and goes back to the drawing room.

 

\-----

 

“Do you really want to learn how to cook?”

 

Will looks up from his mostly empty plate, where he was absently playing with crumbs and leftovers so he wouldn't have to look at Hannibal, who was still slowly finishing his dinner, and looks up to him. 

 

His voice is flat, almost uninterested, but his eyes glimmer when their gazes meet, like he's secretly planning something behind his back and Will has no idea what it is or if he should worry about it: but any kind of conversation is better than the deafening silence that was hovering heavy on them, smothering Will with its oppressive feeling. So he finally relaxes against the chair and takes a deep breath.

 

“Will you teach me if I say yes?”

 

Hannibal drinks some wine and waits for a heartbeat more before replying. He's unreadable for Will right now, closed up in his own mind where nothing can reach him, where not even Will can go. He feels left out, almost lonely, but tries not to make it show on his face.

 

“It'd be better if you learned on your own and at your own pace, without me forcing your hand or pressuring you too much. But I would be always available to answer all your questions.”

 

“Maybe I should rephrase the question: do you want me to learn how to cook?”

 

The man inhales deeply at his words, a frown appears and then disappears just as quickly from his face.

 

“A strange way to put it; why wouldn't I want you to? And, even if I had something against it, it's not my decision.”

 

“Obviously in theory you shouldn't have any problems with it, maybe you should be even pleased, if anything, for managing to include me in another one of you passions without having to talk me into it. But clearly you aren't as pleased as I expected you to be. Or at least... there's something that troubles you about it, which drains any excitement you could have out of it. I'm curious to know what it is... but I'm almost sure you won't tell me anything, not now.”

 

Hannibal smiles vaguely; Will tries to cling to that smile to put his mind to rest, but the way it looks wrong on his face while his eyes are so hard, just adds fuel to his ill thoughts: because something is just not right there, in the way Hannibal looks at him, and it gives him a terrible feeling that disturbs the atmosphere between them. To the point where Will can't help remembering how things used to be before between them, the manipulation and the lies that piled up on his shoulders and threatened to crush him; he thinks about the moment he realized the truth about Hannibal and thought he was never going to survive that sight.

 

It's not quite the same feeling, but Will can see all the deep cracks in Hannibal's armor once again with astonishing clarity, even the ones that are usually very well hidden, and is almost afraid of what is hiding behind them.

 

Hannibal's maroon eyes pin him where's sitting like knives digging into his flesh, and when the man swallows Will feels like he's being devoured, even though they're not even touching and there's enough space between them to allow Will to flee if he wanted to. He doesn't think Hannibal would stop him if he did.

 

“It's simply unusual to see you involved in activities that are usually specifically ascribed to me. It feels like a crossed wire somewhere in the balance that exists between us; that is all, nothing more than this. Perhaps you're just reading too much into my reactions. I would not mind it at all if you decided to learn this or any other activity I also practice.”

 

Will thinks again about the sense of danger he felt, about his throat closing and drying up under the threat of an invisible menace and cannot shake it away no matter what, can't just file it under “over thinking”. It's there, solid between them; it oozes out of Hannibal and permeates the air they breathe, the food they're eating. 

 

But he can't decide if Hannibal really is unaware of it or simply trying to distract him so he will not pry further inside him, so he can protect the soft and exposed nerve Will's words were hitting on. He takes his hand and Hannibal looks genuinely surprised by the touch, it runs electric through them and Will attempts a smile.

 

The contacts lasts only a moment, then he lets him go, looking away from the deep redness of his eyes. The man is quiet, his breaths calculated and slow: Will wants to drink in everything about him, wants to shake him until he'll talk and tell him everything, even though he's afraid of what Hannibal will tell him.

 

Will takes a deep breath and measures his words carefully.

 

“I won't ask you anymore about this. I'm sure you won't hide from me forever. But, to answer your question: yes, I'd be interested in learning how to cook.”

 

He drinks some wine and tries not to think about the look in Hannibal's eyes, that speaks of secrets that will be probably held away from him forever and deep waters he'll never explore; he tries not to think about anything while Hannibal nods slowly and gets up to change their plates, leaving him alone, silence deep around him once again.

 

\-----

 

After finishing dinner and doing the dishes, Hannibal retires to his office, door closed and no sound coming from the room, a clear sign that he wants to be left alone; he excuses himself from Will arguing that he needs to review the medical records of his suicidal patient, call the hospital to know more about his conditions and set up the details for his commitment.

 

Will wonders absently if he knows he can read the half truths that come out of his mouth in the depth of his eyes, or if he's convinced to be perfectly in control of his reactions; wonder if he's allowing him to be aware of them on purpose. He waits for a moment outside the room, almost wanting to knock or don't even bothering with it at all and just go in, sit on his desk, right in front of him, and not give him a rest until he tells him everything. But he doesn't; there are boundaries he'd never allow Hannibal to cross with him and that he respects even when he has the feeling of being discarded and sidelined, even though it's just for one evening.

 

Maybe it's the weight of what Hannibal isn't telling him that hovers over him and grips him hard. 

 

But, no matter all of this, he leaves him alone; gives him his space and retires to the drawing room, folding himself on the couch under a heavy blanket, surfing through the TV channels until he finally settles on a documentary about Ancient Egypt, more out of need to have some background noise to keep his thoughts at bay than for any other reasons.

 

He stares at the screen without really seeing it and feels the weariness of the day fall on him all at once, now that his stomach is heavy with food, his head light because of the wine; his whole body is slowly switching off to lull him into a well deserved heavy sleep, fueled by the warmth of the blanket, by the monotone of the documentary and how tired he feels.

 

But he doesn't sleep: he lies there half awake, his mind refusing to bless him with some peace. Hannibal occupies all the space in there, all his thoughts, with his ambiguous silences, his cryptic words and his actions that most of the times do nothing but to puzzle him even more.

 

Will thinks about the blood on his shirt, bright red on the immaculate fabric, and wonders if Hannibal told him the truth, or if there's something much sinister he's hiding from him.

 

Thinks about his clinical and firm hands holding a blade to his throat, about his dark, unreadable and deep eyes that clawed at his skin and ripped him apart without needing to touch him. 

 

Sometimes he wants to believe; he wants to trust whatever it is that it's happening inside of Hannibal, and something only he seems to be capable of making stir in his chest. 

 

But he knows that Hannibal is not going to suddenly change just because of him, that, actually, he's never going to change at all: he's crooked and damaged in too many places and the cruelty in his eyes, his desperate desire to break Will apart and to set fire to the world around will never go away. 

 

He cares for Will with the same intensity he wants to cut him to pieces and drink in every scream and yelp he can get out of him.

 

He wonders, again, if the blood he saw was really his patient's or if it was of another victim that will be on him, his responsibility, because he's just as damaged and can't let go of him no matter what. Wonders if one day the blood to stain his clothes will be his own.

 

He tries to pretend the thought scares him, that it slaps him awake like a cold shower, and makes him realize just how fucked up his life is now, and that he needs to get away from it, grab his phone and call Jack. 

 

But Will merely sighs to himself, because it doesn't scare him at all. 

 

And he knew what Hannibal was the second he kissed him for the first time and accepted it, saw what he needed and embraced all the rest without reserves. If madness can be transmitted through kisses and blood and love. 

 

He's really not sure who, between them, was the infecting agent and who was the receiver.

 

Hannibal is rotten and dangerous, but so is he and they fit together enough for it to be the only possible life for them.

 

After a while, he relaxes enough to start to drift off, his body saggy and heavy on his bones, his eyelids feeling like stones and the warmth around him creating a cocoon he wants to wrap himself in and never wake up again.

 

He has thin and fading half dreams of himself bleeding out on Hannibal's kitchen floor, of dishes made with his own flesh and is not even surprised when instead of repulsing him, they fill him with a feeling of relaxed fatality that anchors him

 

It's past midnight and he is difficultly trying to get up so he can go to prepare for bed, when Hannibal reappears, looking significantly calmer and more composed than he did during the whole night. 

 

He's holding something that looks like a book and sits down next to Will without saying anything or touching him.

 

“I was about to call it a night and go to bed.”

 

“Yes, it's quite late. We should both go rest ourselves soon if we want to have any chance of functioning tomorrow, but there is something I wanted to give you first.”

 

Hannibal hands him the wrapped book and Will stares at it for a moment; then back at him with his eyes still clouded by sleep and weariness. 

 

Will takes a deep breath and unwraps it slowly, unveiling a red covered ledger, an old thing that must have seen decades, if not more: the first pages are yellowed and frail under his fingers, and he realizes it contains several notebooks fused together, filled by different hands and salvaged with much love from the cruel attacks of time.

 

The writing is in French and even though he figures out right away what it is, he still looks up to Hannibal with curious eyes, while the man stares back at him expectantly, a soft, mellow light reflecting in his gaze.

 

“What's this?”

 

“An old family recipes book that belonged to Marie; she was not married and had no living relatives that she felt would honor the tradition of her family with the due respect it was owed. So, in her will, she left it to me and I received it from my aunt when she passed ten years ago. And now I'm giving it to you, since you have expressed the desire to learn the culinary art. I can't imagine a better way to teach you.”

 

Will had expected those exact words the second he understood what the ledger was; but it still takes him by surprise how Hannibal manages to look terrifying and vulnerable at the same time in this moment; like he's giving Will a very small part of himself, of his world, and is waiting to see how he's going to react to it.

 

Will closes it and runs a hand over the cover, feeling the rough and consumed texture of the fabric under his palm and fingers, passing them over the oil stains and the loose threads: he waits for Hannibal to continue and hears him inhales and exhale slowly for a moment.

 

“I have provided you with a list of utensils, and one of explanations for the most common terms you will find there. I suggest you to start with the recipes in the central section of the book: it contains several simple ones you will be able to master, I am sure, very quickly.”

 

“It's in French.”

 

Hannibal frowns at his dismissive tone, but stares at his hands, at the care with which they're holding the ledger and his expression quickly goes back to being perfectly indifferent.

 

“I assumed that, being from Louisiana, you'd know some Cajun French; was I wrong?” 

 

Will shakes his head and takes off his glasses, breathing deeply and massaging his temples. He smiles in the end, looking at Hannibal through his long lashes, reaching out to touch his arm. The man doesn't move at all and his face doesn't change.

 

“I didn't even know you had something like this. It's nice of you to share it with me. Too nice perhaps...”

 

“Do you believe I have some kind a secret agenda? Is it really so unthinkable for you that I may just want to do you a kindness, with nothing hidden behind it?”

 

Will smiles, but then looks away, putting the book on the coffee table in front of them and sinking back into the softness of the couch: the distance between them seems so wide, a trick of the light and of his tired mind that makes Hannibal appearing more distant than he really is.

 

“There is always a secret agenda with you, it's hard to imagine you without one. That doesn't mean this gift is less meaningful, and I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm just wondering what this means: if it's a tool to stop me from prying too deep into its meaning by making me focus on something else, or... I don't know, it could be a million things and nothing. And it confuses me. It makes me imagine what kind of terrible things could be happening in your mind, if there is something you're keeping from me.”

 

Hannibal doesn't reply, but his eyes are fiery pits, where Will can't clearly see anything, only catch glimpses of the turmoil behind the curtain that is hiding it. He thinks about the sense of danger he had felt in the kitchen and feels the steel of it still on his skin, like the knife Hannibal had at his throat in bed that night, while he whispered in his ear about slaughtered animal and making him imagine himself as one of them.

 

“Why are you giving me this? It's obviously something you care about, something that shaped some part of you. And now, instead of using it to shape me the same way, you're... I don't know... leaving me free to explore it with my own resources. I don't know what you're getting out of all this, if you're after some goal far ahead, if you just want to see what I will do with this or...”

 

He feels helpless, and the words won't come out like he wants them to: he realizes he's digging his fingers into the fabric of the couch and lets go with a sudden irritation. Will doesn't know if what he's feeling comes from himself or from Hannibal, if the hunger veined with desire, lust and confusion that grows in his belly is genuine or something that is oozing from the other man and dripping into him.

 

“You like to manipulate me, you force me to see the worst parts of myself and of you, we share our darkest secrets... and yet this one simple thing completely throws you off, worries you in ways I don't understand. It makes me feel guilt, like this is my fault because I keep poking where I shouldn't, because I have no idea what I'm digging into. And you are just not helping. I'm tired and confused.”

 

Hannibal grabs his wrist, fingers pressing hard on his bones, eyes cutting deep into him like swords and Will regrets his words, but is, at the same time, intrigued by the reaction.

 

He's not losing control, but there's a fault in his ability to hover above it all, godlike and devious like he usually does; something that chains him to the present moment and brings to the surface something buried deeply under layer and layers of self restraint.

 

Will can see the animal reflecting in his eyes, the beast stir and smell him, growl at him like its afraid to be touched or seen. 

 

He swallows and Hannibal lets him go. His wrist is red, it should hurt, this, of all things, should really worry him, but he feels nothing but a sudden and complete calm filling him.

 

“You cannot be shaped by what shaped me, we are too different. You think you can apply the whole bulk of your own life and experiences to me simply because many of them coincide. But this is not the case, I assure you. You are sure I am always trying to push your limits, and you are indeed right; I enjoy testing your boundaries and yours limits, I find it interesting and you find me interesting when you test mine. But not all I do is manipulation, even you must be aware of that. 

 

“Yes, this is an heirloom I'm very much attached to, that evokes fond memories in me, maybe the only few ones I have from my childhood, but nothing I wouldn't share with you. I am sure you will be careful with it, I see no problem in lending it to you for a while.”

 

Will nods absently and then crawls into his lap, sitting on him and taking his face between his hands, pressing his fingers on the cheekbones, on the hollow under his eyes, on the curve of his lips, sliding them on his neck and resting them on his shoulders.

 

“Have you killed someone tonight?”

 

Hannibal looks absolutely amused by his question, and understands what he means without needing any other word from him; then kisses him very slowly and deeply, grinding their bodies together, pushing his hands under Will's shirt until he touches skin and Will sighs into his mouth, clinging to him for support, scratching him above his shirt. 

 

When he pulls away, Hannibal bites his neck, so hard he's afraid he'll break skin, instead just sucks a deep, reed bruise. Will smiles and licks his lips, forehead against Hannibal's, fingers laced in his hair.

 

“You can call the hospital yourself and verify what I'm saying.”

 

He isn't denying it, likes to leave Will hanging, but, ironically, he feels safer and more at peace now that he did before. Hannibal kisses him again and then watches him as Will gets off of him.

 

He knows the discussion is over, even the danger dissipates. Hannibal caresses his face and there's no trace of threats in this touch, only a tacit request: don't look too deeply, not now, you won't like what you'll see. Usually that wouldn't stop him, but he's too tired now, so Will nods softly and then kisses the palm of his hand.

 

“Thank you. I appreciate the gift, whatever it means, I really do. Will you allow me to cook for you one day?”

 

Hannibal's smile hides his teeth, but not the light in his eyes, that speak of secret hungers and desires that reflect into Will and fill him to the brim.

 

“Of course, Will. Of course.”


	3. sous-vide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal won't be very present in the next 2 chapters; but don't worry, the presence of our dear cannibal will be felt. But! There'll be lots of interactions of Will with the ladies! Hurray!  
> This chapter was very hard for me to write, so feedbacks are very, very encouraged.  
> Please, if you like this story, leave a comment; it would really make my day.
> 
> Thank you to Ash and Livy for beta and emotional support!

Will spends more than a week debating what to do with the recipes book; stares at it and reads it from cover to cover two times, struggling with his rusty French and the different hand writings, but at the same time, managing to memorize a lot of what he reads.

 

He keeps it in his old satchel, takes it to work, opens it during the gaps between lessons, and imagines himself in his little kitchen, preparing the wonders listed there.

 

Sometimes it's easy, almost immediate: his movement echoing the gestures he's seen Hannibal do so many times, his hands following the same rhythm, as if the man were right there guiding him; Will can feel the warmth of his fingers on his skin so vividly he sighs.

 

But there are other times when he has absolutely no idea where to start or how, what he's supposed to do.

 

He's not equipped for any of that; starting with the neglected state his kitchen's in, ending with the fact that he knows next to nothing about food preparation.

 

He thinks about how this is just such a stupid situation, one he got himself into because of his curiosity. 

 

And, a few times, he has to forcefully stop himself from driving back to Hannibal's house and giving him back the ledger; he waits for the wave of self doubt to retreat, and feels incredibly stupid after.

 

It's the desire to understand and see what Hannibal is keeping from him, what's hiding in the creases and folds of his perfect control, that keeps him motivated. 

 

One day, in a bout of sudden inspiration, he buys a stack of notepads, and spends a few hours writing down the names of the simpler recipes, the one he feels confident he wouldn't end up screwing up too badly, making lists of what he'd need to make them, and then keeps it on his bedside table, staring at it before falling asleep.

 

Wondering when he'll have the guts to finally act on his projects.

 

But time passes and he's still stuck, waiting for something to happen, too caught up in his own head to give himself the boost he needs.

 

\-----

 

Somehow, fate comes to his rescue in the most unexpected way.

 

Alana finds him reading the recipes book again one day, while he's holing up in his classroom so he won't have to meet Jack and end up getting tricked into helping with his latest case; which apparently involves children, and he really doesn't feel able to handle any of that right now. 

 

Will doesn't notice her until she clears her throat loudly enough to get above the noise of his thoughts, and he flinches, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. The world always looks more acceptable when it's a little blurred, he has decided a long time ago. 

 

The whole building feels empty around them, while the majority of the students and teachers are at lunch: the silence makes his skin crawl and prickle in an unpleasant way, like there's something lurking inside it, watching them.

 

“Reading something interesting? You looked very absorbed.”

 

Will shrugs and tries to dismiss the ledger without bringing too much attention to it, suddenly shy about it and about the situation he's in, about the failure that hangs over his head like a Damocles sword; and, cowardly, he doesn't feel like having witnesses of his embarrassment. 

 

“Not really, I was... lost in my head.”

 

He looks up to her instead: they aren't back to their old “avoiding being alone together day” and, thankfully, just a hint of awkwardness remains between them. He assumes she too much on her mind to worry about all that these days.

 

She's glowing already in a tale telling way; the engagement ring shining on her finger even in his bleak classroom, her features softening more and more as time passes and her figures changes.

 

He smiles because she looks beautiful and happy, and she deserves that; the happiness that good, normal people deserve to have. 

 

The sight of Alana building up something good and lasting away from the bloody and tainted mess that surrounds all of them fills him with serenity, but not with nostalgia: there's no regret or mournful longing for something that was, as he knows now, never supposed to happen in the first place. Impossible as it was with anyone, not only with her.

 

He has learned to see things from a distance, from behind the thick glass that separates him from the rest of the world: he used to try to reach out and break it to grab what he thought he would find there waiting for him, what he thought would've made him different, happier, but he knows now that there was nothing for him there. 

 

He accepted it and now sinks into the darkness around him willingly, with Hannibal's arms wrapped around him and his hand around his throat, remembering him where he belongs and who he really is, behind the masks he wears for the rest of the world.

 

Will is taken away from his thoughts and back to the present time, when Alana starts flipping through the pages of the book, and he absently wonders if in all her years of knowing Hannibal, she has ever seen it and knows what it is.

 

The smile that opens on her face when she recognizes his hand writing, answers his question.

 

“I never thought I'd see this outside of Hannibal's kitchen one day, let alone here at the FBI and in your hands. It has been years since the last time I saw him use it. You know, I always had the morbid curiosity to go through it and find out about all his cooking secrets. Did he give it to you?”

 

“Yeah, I'm... kind of thinking about starting learning how to cook. He was kind enough to lend it to me for a while.”

 

She rises her eyebrows at his phrasing, but instead of commenting, she smiles and nods absently, sitting down in front of him; Will has the unpleasant feeling of being in the middle of another session with yet another psychiatrist, and it freezes the atmosphere around them for a moment, at least for him. 

 

He doesn't want Hannibal's gestures and feelings towards him to be dissected and analyzed by other people, not even Alana, perhaps especially not her: it surprises him how possessive he is of his personal hell, and doesn't even know if jealousy is the right word to describe the sudden need he feels inside his heart to hide and protect their secrets. 

 

Or if maybe he's just afraid to be put in front of hard truths coming from another mouth; truths he'd have to face without any chance of hiding anymore, pushing forward revelations he doesn’t want to handle now.

 

Will looks away from her, while she goes through the section of the ledger written by Hannibal, a knowing smile on her lips.

 

“So, what have you cooked so far? How did it go?”

 

“I... haven't started practicing yet, actually.”

 

He tries to sound dismissive instead of guilty and defeated, but the ironic look he gets in returns is the nail in the coffin of his embarrassment.

 

“Too busy to find the time?”

 

Alana has the book still in her hands, resting on her lap and slightly holding on to it; Will thinks about it in Hannibal's hands, imagine how it would look like while he's cooking and pacing around the kitchen, a light frown creasing his forehead and the ledger open by his side. 

 

They both saw him like that, he thinks, and for the first time has a real, strong perception of how much weight and space Hannibal occupies in their lives, more than it does in other people's, like Jack or even Abigail.

 

They see different Hannibal's of course, each one enclosed in distinct parts of his life, that remain separated no matter how much they bleed into each other at times, but they are not lies, they are not less true to the man or to them because of that. 

 

Hannibal shows him the monster, the animal with blood stained teeth wrapped in polished suits and ties; he shows the rest of the world, the one Alana inhabits, the eccentric, but polite and amusing man, with his quick wit and his impeccable manners.

 

That separation hangs between them, and Will wonders how Hannibal manages to balance in between. He's glad to be the one who can experience both, despite how high and terrible the price of that knowledge is, and how much he misses being ignorant and blind sometimes.

 

“I guess that's one of the reasons, yes: having six dogs and a steady job is time consuming. But... honestly, mostly I have no idea where to start, but I guess that's normal when approaching something so new and complex.”

 

He's making up excuses not to get to the real reason that's holding him back: Will knows it, and it would be impossible for a clever woman like Alana not to be aware of that as well.

 

The rest of the sentence, the unsaid part of it, is still clinging to his lips, refusing to be said aloud. 

 

Alana folds her hands on the still barely visible bump of her belly, like she's containing herself and wrapping invisible strength around that space in her body. 

 

Will wonders if she's consciously aware of it, but that simple and human gesture reminds him of Hannibal stimming with his scalpel while drawing or mouthing silently an opera while cooking, makes him smile despite the weight on his chest.

 

Reminds him that pretending, sometimes, is useless.

 

“Maybe there are too many wires attached to and hanging loose from this one, simple thing. Wires I'm afraid to entangle or cut, because I have no idea where to step not to.”

 

“Are these wires in Hannibal or in you?”

 

“Are you going to give me relationship advices? I'm not sure how I feel about this situation, honestly.”

 

Alana smiles at him, knowingly and wisely in that way she has of doing it that makes you wonder what kind of secret knowledge is hiding behind that smile, her eyes brightening up when she does it. 

 

Then she rises from the chair and hands him back the ledger.

 

“No, I'm going to invite you to lunch. Come on, I'm starving. Lets get out of here.”

 

\-----

 

They go to a little Italian restaurant that is the exact opposite of what he always imagined an Italian restaurant would've been like: it's small, and yet not even half full despite the hour; but with no possibility of intimacy of any kind, not with the waiters wandering around the tables and their habit of shouting in dialect to reply to the orders that come from the kitchen.

 

The other guests don't seem to mind, and neither does Alana, who's greeted by the host with a loud, familiar welcome; it surely add to how picturesque and exotic the place looks, so earthly and without the refined, but fake grace of other fine restaurants. 

 

But it makes Will flinch unpleasantly when the noises threaten to trigger a headache, and he is really grateful when they finally sit down in a corner by the windows, a little removed from the rest of the fuss, but still in plain view.

 

“Hannibal brought me here a few times while I was his student; I fell in love with the place so much that I kept coming on my own since then. It may not look very fancy, but the food is amazing, trust me.”

 

Will looks around and struggles to imagine Hannibal there.

 

“Doesn't really look like his kind of place...”

 

Alana smiles knowingly again, while they order their meals and start sharing the bottle of water the waiter puts in front of them. She looks up to him from the rim of the menu she's holding, extremely amused by his reactions.

 

“You'd be surprised; he has a passion for little places like this. The chef here is someone he knew from his time in Italy, I think, so he kept bringing people here to help it gather a good clientele. No matter how busy or full they are, they always had a table for him.”

 

Will doesn't feel exactly blindsided by the revelation, but he cannot ignore the uneasiness that creeps into him when he realizes that there are whole aspects of Hannibal's life he ignores completely, that, in truth, he never bothered to ask about. 

 

He focused so much on the side of him that kills, that threatens and snarls in the dark like a wolf, that he ended up neglecting the man everybody else sees and knows. He ignores how the man used to spend his days before meeting him, what he does when he's alone.

 

And it gives him the terrible feeling of missing out of something precious and beautiful.

 

He keeps his eyes fixed on his antipasto of prosciutto crudo and melon, and uses his fork to play with a thick slices for a while, to choose his words, before taking it to his mouth and chewing slowly, to give himself even more time.

 

“I had no idea; he always invites me to dinner at his house.”

 

“He does that a lot now, yes.” 

 

“Maybe he just prefers the intimacy he can create there, the feeling of owning the stage he sets completely, more than he ever could in a place like this.”

 

Alana nods.

 

“I asked him about it once; he told me that taste evolves and changes. And that, after spending so much of his time, exploring the flavors the world can offer, he suddenly decided he wanted to focus on creating his owns. But that, to me, sounded like a very articulated way to say he prefers to show off on his own now. To make everybody fall in love with his food.”

 

Will laughs at that, because he can see Hannibal saying those words; and can imagine how Alana must've reacted to them.

 

“He does love a worshiping audience, that's for sure.”

 

Alana says nothing at that, just sips her lemon tea and returns to her food, but the way she shakes her head almost imperceptibly says everything. 

 

They eat in silence for a while, and, while it's quiet and cozy, almost unbelievably pleasant, despite everything, Will can feel the need to get up and leave without another word creeping into him. 

 

Because if on one hand, he wants to hear what she has to say; to get out of his own head and see things from someone else point of view: and he knows how insightful Alana's will be. 

 

But then... he thinks about how exposed his secrets will be, how deep inside himself he'd have to look to understand how he really feels, and he's not sure he wants that.

 

It's easy to concentrate on Hannibal and his emotions sometimes; they're overwhelmingly strong, they knock everything else out of his head and leave him full and empty at the same time; it's way harder to make sense of what moves inside his own mind, of what he keeps there and that it's only his, that doesn't belong to anyone else.

 

He needs clarity; and it seems so far away from him now, because everything goes back to Hannibal, to how much he fails to understand about him, about his moody behavior.

 

Will doesn't know hoe to act with him, how to measure his steps and make the right decisions; the house of cards they're building, could crumble any time, destroying them. 

 

In the end, he just takes a deep breath, and then excuses himself for a moment; washing his face in the little bathroom helps, and he feels less on edge when he comes back, more inclined to have conversations like a normal person.

 

He smiles to Alana, who politely asks him if he's all right, always worried about him, but without being suffocating or overbearing. He nods and calls for the waiter to assure her he's fine.

 

Will is halfway through his plate of trofie al pesto, licking his lips satisfied, because Alana was right, the food is truly delicious and fills him pleasantly, sitting warm and heavy in his belly, when the woman puts her fork down and sighs, signaling to him the beginning of their conversation.

 

“What wires are you afraid to cross?”

 

He's not surprised by the direct question and inhales deeply, finishing the last bites of his pasta and then emptying his glass of wine: Will closes his eyes and the words pile in front of him, waiting to be chosen, just like Hannibal does with him. 

 

He slips for a moment into the man's head space and allows the secret calm the man is capable of to fill him, even though it doesn't manage to drown his discomfort completely.

 

“Do you ever have the impression that he keeps everything and everyone in little boxes inside himself? We all have our place in his life, our little world in a box, and we are the absolute rulers of it. Even when we do mix and meet, when all these universes collide, he knows where we belong in his order of things, who we are for him and what we represent. Except people can't be controlled like that at all times; sometimes they mess up that order, and wires inside him cross in unexpected ways. I have the feeling this may be one of those cases.”

 

“I can't decide if this mental image is endearing or terrifying, to be honest.”

 

“Both perhaps, like all the different sides of him: he can be endearing, familiar or... well... mysterious to the point of being unsettling. And when he's not sure of himself... he freezes, he cuts you out. And you can't see him clearly anymore.”

 

Alana nods absently, while the waiter clears their table and brings their second course: Will stares at his steak and thinks that it has been so long since he last ate meat not prepared by Hannibal. 

 

It tasted unfamiliar and different; and, while it's delicious like all the rest, it's almost dull in his mouth, deprived of anything peculiar that stands out: almost like the industrial processed burgers he used to eat.

 

He goes through it slowly, chewing difficultly, and welcomes Alana resuming their conversation to get away from it. Her plate is still half full as well, the pink of her salmon clashing with the green of the salad it is resting on.

 

“And you're afraid that learning how to cook is one of those cases when worlds melt together and he can't make sense of them anymore? So he builds his defenses up even higher to hide it?”

 

“I think that's what he fears could happen, so he's... locking up even though nothing happened yet, and I don't know why; he avoids all questions to the point where I don't see the point in bringing it up. And I'm not sure if I should continue down this road if this is the reaction I get in return.”

 

She clears her lips with the napkin, and Will uses the pause to gather his thoughts and feelings: he remembers Hannibal's distance, his sudden coldness, the sense of danger that was creeping up on him, and can't make sense of any of it, not even now; he feels lost, abandoned with no clue of what will come next.

 

And he knows Alana can sense it somehow, because she's not blind and has, perhaps, a clearer picture of him now than she ever did before: Will can see it in the way she talks to him, blunt and direct, with no traces of that old condescending tact she used to use with him, like he was too fragile to handle the truth.

 

“I'm wondering if your hesitation really stems from your lack of clarity on this subject or from your disappointment in the reaction you got from Hannibal when you proposed it to him.”

 

Will snorts, but only manages to sound more childishly offended than he intended.

 

“You think this is just a tantrum I'm throwing because Hannibal didn't cheer for me?”

 

The woman smiles.

 

“Let me ask you a different question then: when you kissed me, did you do it because you had anticipated my reaction and knew I would refuse you? Because it was safe?”

 

Will feels his cheek heat in embarrassment at that: he hadn't thought about that kiss in ages, if not with a deep sense of regret for even doing that in the first place; and the mention of it, together with Alana's insight, throws him off his bases for a moment. He drinks some water and clears his throat.

 

“I was hoping we would never discuss it ever again, honestly. But... yeah. Yes, I did, I knew you would reject me, it was just... I wasn't thinking straight back then. I was struggling to understand the reality around me, and you were there, and some part of me thought “why not”. I mean... you were attractive, I was attracted to you. We had some kind of... connection, as feeble as it was. I thought it was enough. I felt really embarrassed about it once I was better, and guilty. Like I had tried to use you to solve my own problems, with no consideration for you as a person; and you did not deserve that.”

 

Will takes a deep breath before continuing, a lump forming in his throat because he knows she's right: that was safe, and shouldn't have been maybe. And this one thing that should've been easy and immediate, isn't. And it messes up the order inside him.

 

Alana doesn't seem offended by his revelations: she actually smiles gently at him. Her fingers touch his hand and he doesn't pull away from the contact; it's pleasant, warm, but without the burning electricity he feels with Hannibal.

 

He smiles back, and her hand retreats, allowing him to continue.

 

“I knew what to expect from you, you were easy to empathize with; I knew that whatever interest you could've had in me, would've never been stronger than your desire to protect yourself.”

 

“But now it's different, isn't it? The exact opposite even. You thought this desire of sharing Hannibal's passion would've been met with warmth and encouragement; instead it didn't happen. And your failure to understand the meaning of this is holding you back.”

 

Will nods, not very really sure how much he should admit or explain to her, because, no matter what, she'll not be able to understand him wholly, there will always be dark areas and secrets he cannot share with her; and that deprives her of the complete picture.

 

He thinks again about Hannibal holding a knife to his throat, then the image shifts to the man caressing him during sex, to the expression he imagines his face may have while he kills; to the quiet smiles he reserves only for him. 

 

They are all the same person, and he wants to fit in between all of them, to slide into the empty spaces that exist between every one of his personas, and keep them together, throw down the walls Hannibal still has up.

 

He sighs and takes off his glasses to massage his nose.

 

“I'm not good at dealing with conflicts: I either give in too easily or fight too much and too hard, I can never find a balance. And I don't know if I should keep doing something that may just cause more and more of them between me and him; I deal with enough of them at work, and... maybe I just want things to be easy, at least one time.”

 

He doesn't tell her that it'll never be easy between Hannibal and him, because there are too many shadows hanging on both of them, bloody skeletons hidden behind the facade they put on. He clings to her words, to his own feelings, because he knows it took her a long time to develop enough distance from her vision of him and of Hannibal to be able to speak like she's doing now. He's grateful to Alana for that.

 

Alana is distracted for a moment to welcome their desserts with an educated smile to the waiter, while Will tries to get a hold of himself. The tiramisù is almost as good as Hannibal's, but he barely has time to enjoy it, before Alana starts talking again.

 

“I'll be frank with you, because you deserve that from me, and I know it took me a while to understand it and that sometimes I didn't respect you enough to do that, but I plan on not making the same mistakes anymore.”

 

He waits for her to continue and it feels like they whole place around them suddenly became silent, but he doesn't look around.

 

“You may think he doesn't want you to do this, because of his reaction or because of something you are not telling me, but... look, I have known him for years, he was my mentor, he taught me so much. I used to go to his house and help him prepare the food for his parties: and he never proposed to teach me how to cook, or offered to lend me his recipes book so I could learn on my own; he explained enough to allow me to help, but never more than that. But he gave it to you, he shared this part of himself with you. It's a sign of trust, perhaps more than you want to admit to yourself.” 

 

Will smiles despite himself at that thought: he imagines Hannibal in his study, weighting his options, thinking about their conversation in the kitchen, about the one they had in bed that night, about the memory he has of Will consuming his blood. He feels it on his skin, savors those thoughts inside his mouth, and they erase the taste of the food, replace it with the lingering, metallic one of blood that reminds him of Hannibal.

 

He thinks about his eyes when the man gave him the book, the turbid coldness mixed with slithering warmth. Will knows Alana has a point, that deep down there's some truth in her words, and for a moment considers trusting only that, following his desires. He's not sure he can, no matter how hard he craves to do it. Close his eyes and abandon himself to the strength of the stream he and Hannibal are immersed into.

 

“When did you become so wise and well adjusted? Is there a course I can follow?”

 

“I'll let you know if I find one. I'm not wise, Will, and something tells me I don't have all the elements to judge this situation as completely as I'd like, and that you will not tell me any more than you already have, and I respect that, it's your life, not mine, and you're not a child, you can take care of yourself, you always could. But I know you, and I know Hannibal: you are two of the most trust issue plagued people I have ever had the chance to meet. And, if I can intrude, I think you really want to trust him. At least on this; trust him to be what he is, to accept your desires and your deeper presence in his life.”

 

“Sometimes I feel like I have wormed my way in it already so deeply I'll get lost if I'm not careful...”

 

Alana doesn't reply: she's stroking her belly again, without noticing; Will thinks about the child she'll have, the life she'll build, how much this seems to have already transformed her. He likes the transformation he sees there, and wonders what kind he's operating on Hannibal, if he'll ever see the full extent of it and if he'll like the result.

 

An irrational part of him, one that needs to control every aspect of their relationship, wants to know everything, to be able to predict him as well as Hannibal seems to do with him; but they're too different for that to be a realistic scenario, and Hannibal is too good at keeping hidden what he's not ready to show him. And, in the end, he loves wrapping himself in the folds of his secrets, where no one can see or find him: he wouldn't want to give that up, even if it means living with ghosts.

 

Will inhales deeply, and nods in the end; he smiles and closes his eyes for a moment, imagining himself learning, adjusting to the idea of being able to knock down another one of the issues that hang between them by trusting his guts and waiting in silence for the man to come to him.

 

“Your boyfriend really is a lucky man. I'd like to meet him one day, if you are comfortable with that.”

 

Alana stares at him for a very long moment, weighting his words, the sincerity in them: he looks out of the window while he waits for her to reply, and when he looks back, she's smiling fondly.

 

“Maybe you could cook for us, if you do decide to put your mind to seriously learn, once you're good enough at it.”

 

Will tries to imagine it, but the idea seems so far away he can barely see a glimpse of it through the thick fog that hovers over his thoughts. Nevertheless, he reciprocates the smile. 

 

“I would love that very much, I really would. I better get to work as soon as I can, then, so I won't keep you waiting for too long.”

 

He's surprised when he realizes that he truly means it.


	4. au jus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Hopefully the next chapters will come much more quickly.

It takes him another week of preparations to be ready to actually start practicing; it's a long process and Will is surprised when his determination never falters during that time.

 

He takes Hannibal's lists and fills his house with new pans, new knives, better and fresher ingredients than the ones he used to make due with before; he reorganizes his kitchen until he feels satisfied with the result. 

 

Until it becomes familiar and comfortable again, enough to chase away the uneasiness it gives him at first.

 

He feels guilty at first for spending so much of his savings at once and in things that are, in his vision of things shaped by years of poverty, not as strictly necessary as dog food, clothes and others basic needs: but Will prefers to considers them an investment for the future. 

 

He did need new pans, after all, to replace his old and battered ones, and his knives were old enough to be ready to be retired. 

 

The rest of the new, unfamiliar utensils seem threatening and unnatural at first, but he masters them quickly; he holds them until his hands get used to them and he has learned their function.

 

The sight of his fridge full is so odd for him he takes a picture of it with his phone for no other reason than he feels a stupid sense of pride about it. 

 

It's a memento perhaps, and Will debates with himself for a long time, before sending it to Hannibal with no other added text.

 

The man calls him in response, and hearing his voice, and the subtle appreciation in it makes his skin crawl and itch with the desire to touch him, to feel him murmur it directly on it, into the curve of his neck or into the space between his legs.

 

"An interesting picture to send."

 

His voice has a warm and relaxed color in it that peels layers and layers of tension off of him, leaving him relaxed and raw, wanting to lean into it, feeling the need to touch it and feel it on his exposed bones.

 

"Are you proud of me?"

 

"I am certainly glad you have decided to take better care of yourself and starting to eat better food, even when I'm not the one preparing it for you. It'll surely benefit you to move away permanently from your previous diet of precooked meals. Health wise at least."

 

"I'm sure you know best, doctor."

 

"Have you already started practicing?"

 

Will takes a deep breath and leans against the counter, slipping one hand in his pocket.

 

"Not yet; this weekend most likely, when I'll have more free time and some peace from my workload. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need it."

 

"Very wise, it'll take time to learn, to master the techniques, to overcome the failures; you should not be frustrated or rushed by lack of time or impending deadlines."

 

"Do all these questions mean you've finally loosened up and came to terms with me doing this?"

 

“Were you waiting for my approval?”

 

“Don't try to change the subject, it's rude.”

 

Hannibal falls silent, but Will can hear him inhale deeply: he moves through the house and goes to sit on the bed, filling the silence around him with his muffled noises. He relaxes against the pillows, one hand on his stomach: he vaguely wonders if Hannibal would be able to tell, from his voice, from the rhythm of his breaths, if he started jerking off right there, and files it under things to try one day.

 

"The choice was always yours, Will, I merely helped you practically with my suggestions. You decided to do this on your own. And now that you have come to your decision, I accept it and endorse it."

 

He's still so incredibly calm and complacent, despite the stilted and cold choice of words: Will can almost see him, if he closes his eyes, sitting on the armchair in front of his fireplace, a book in his lap and a glass of wine on the coffee table. Comfortable and familiar. But not quite as relaxed as he'd like him to think.

 

"I know that, and I know that this decision isn't just about you, or about sharing something with you alone: these skills will be mine to use as I see fit and with whoever I want. But you weren't so at ease with the idea before, and you're still avoiding my questions."

 

Hannibal laughs softly.

 

"You will know me a lot better than you do now once you become comfortable with the culinary arts. You will be able to understand far more of my crimes than you ever did before. Now, there are still areas of them that are fogged and clouded, that you cannot fully understand. All that will change."

 

Will says nothing for a moment, frowning without realizing.

 

"I will be able to analyze how you turned your victims into food; the decision to take one organ instead of another; the choice of the recipes... It will be intimate, I'll be under your skin far more than I am now. Does that frighten you?"

 

There's another long pause, and Will shifts uncomfortably on the bed, leaning into the pillow behind his back, breathing as softly as he can.

 

"No; it may unsettle me, perhaps, but you could never frighten me. I enjoy the thrill of you bringing chaos and mayhem into my life far too much to be afraid of it. What about you? Are you scared of finding out so much more? Of seeing so deeply inside the dark corners that have eluded you so far?"

 

Will thinks about it for a long moment, and his thoughts are scattered with the images of Hannibal's crime scenes, of the meals that corresponded to them: he feels the thrill of curiosity, and an unexpected longing to know more, to see more, to learn and see the world like Hannibal does, to sink into his point of view even more completely.

 

“No, it doesn't. I'm not afraid of any side of you. I accepted all of them a long time ago.”

 

Hannibal allows the words to hang between them for a while; Will imagines him smiling, wants to believe he is, at least, that his words hit the pressure points he was aiming for and erased the last shreds of tension from their conversations.

 

“Something tells me I should not feel as glad as I do to hear you say that; this excessive exposition of my vulnerable parts to your scrutiny should not give me a sense of comfortable familiarity.”

 

“I got used to yours, I'm sure you can do the same... I'll try to handle you with care.”

 

“You shouldn't, there's no reason for you to.”

 

Will sighs and lays a blanket on his legs, smiling when one of his dogs jumps on the bed and settles at his feet, while Winston nudges at his arm until Will allows him on the bed as well: warmth surrounds him, nurses him and he thinks about Hannibal in his study once again, imagines him next to him, wrapped in that same atmosphere of domesticity he's surrounded by.

 

The cold, sharp, dangerous edges of Hannibal immersed in the peace Will created at his house: his chasm of pollution and cruelty, and at the same time of desperate love and care, all there in his arms. Will wants to nurture that creature and see it grow stronger.

 

“Perhaps. But you can allow me to indulge in the fantasy of being able to take care of you.”

 

They don't talk about any of this when Will goes over for dinner the next day: he lets Hannibal treat him with food and attentions, enjoys their conversation and keeps it as light as he can manage, bringing up his students, his dogs, any topic that doesn't require too much effort from either of them.

 

Hannibal's eyes are far away; they look at him, but don't seem to focus on anything; it feels like he's lost in a dimension separated from the one Will inhabits: locked away in his memory palace, revisiting memories he knows nothing about. 

 

Will allows him his space with an understanding smile and fills the emptiness around him with his words, despite the lump in his throat that speak of suspects he cannot chase away no matter what.

 

Because he can't stop wondering what hides behind the distance Hannibal is trying to put between them, and the meaning of it: Will tries to reach out, to get through it, and it's even worse when what he receives in return is not even a plain and simple rejection, but a subtle coldness and refusal to let anything through his armor.

 

When he asks if there's anything bothering him, Hannibal stares at him long and hard for a moment, eyes like flames, licking his body and leaving burning marks behind them; he seems to snap out of it a moment later, gently touching his hand and smiling, shaking his head and turning the discussion back to the food. 

 

But Will doesn't forget any of it, not even when, after dinner, he obediently lies down on the couch while Hannibal plays the harpsichord for him, pretending there's nothing wrong: the music does soothe him, massages his muscles and his mind until he's on the verge of falling asleep, tender notes fluttering in his ears. 

 

He thinks about Hannibal alone in his house when he's not there, what does he do, if he longs for his solitary days and the freedom he used to have during them.

 

If he misses the thrill of the chase and of the kill, the blood on his hands, digging the knife into someone's flesh and tearing them apart; and if he'll ever be able to give him something good to fulfill him as entirely killing did.

 

He wants to become everything for Hannibal, and at the same time he wants to keep their lives separated. Killing was what held him all together: all the different sides and parts of him, and now... he may be giving it up.

 

And he can't help asking himself what he'll replace that with.

 

He wonders if he can do that; or if he's lying to him.

 

Will gets up and approaches him, putting his hands on his shoulders, squeezing them lightly until he stops playing and looks up to him; and all the words he wanted to say die in his mouth, choked away by the look in Hannibal's eyes, at the same time wild and reassuring. He wants to kiss him, stab him, drink his blood and eat his flesh, let him fuck him until they'll melt together and no one will be able to separate them.

 

He caresses his face and Hannibal sighs under his hands, his fingers around his wrist, massaging it lightly.

 

“Are you alright, Will?”

 

Will sits next to him on the bench and kisses him: I am, if you're not lying to me, if what you're hiding from me is not what I fear. 

 

He doesn't taste anything on his lips; no blood or gore or dark secrets. 

 

Only Hannibal, and that suffocating loneliness he takes with him wherever he goes; that constant longing and secret suffering no one is aware of, but that Will can see in every wrinkle, scar and mark on his face and body. And that wild, passionate vitality, love for everything beautiful; the desire to create beauty and to destroy it.

 

So he keeps his thoughts for himself, again, because he can have all the worst possible thoughts about what Hannibal is keeping away from him, and still trust him more than he should to tell him one day.

 

He smiles and is surprised when he means it, truly, as he means the nods that follows.

 

“I'm just tired, too many thoughts.”

 

“Do you want to share them?”

 

“No, I want to go to bed.”

 

He takes Hannibal apart with his mouth and his hands when they're both naked: sucks him off for a long time, with the heavy weight of him in his mouth, staring up to him as he digs his nails into his hips or runs them on his chest in deep, red lines; until Hannibal pulls at his hair hard enough to make him stop. 

 

And then fucks him face down, rutting into him while caressing his skin and kissing his shoulders, sweet and rough at the same time.

 

Will sinks into it, into Hannibal's hands keeping him still while fucking him hard into the mattress, pushing into him mercilessly or brushing the hair away from his forehead as he pants and moans under him. 

 

He's holding one of his wrists so hard Will knows there'll be bruises tomorrow, but the pain fuels his need for more contact, wakes him up and keeps him anchored to the present, as does Hannibal's chest pressed against his back.

 

The orgasm is a needed release that cleanses him of his bad thoughts, and leaves him boneless and empty afterward, in a limbo where nothing can touch him or spoil the way he feels: Hannibal, behind him, groans and bites his shoulder when he comes, sinking his teeth so deep he almost breaks skin, but Will moans in return, kisses him hard when he slides off of him and he can turn around.

 

He sleeps with a smile on his face, in Hannibal's arms; face cushioned on his chest, listening to his heart beating in its cage of flesh and bones, imagining it in his hand still alive, with warm blood running on his forearms.

 

Will presses his lips against the scar on his wrist, catching Hannibal's eyes shining in the darkness around them, and bites down lightly, watching him smile, before closing his eyes and sinking into unconsciousness.

 

\-----

 

Now Will stands in the middle of his cramped, little kitchen, staring at the ingredients and the tools on the table; like he's suddenly regretting his decision and is on the verge of giving up: the ledger in his hand is a comfortable presence though, and his determination returns when he spreads it open on the consumed wood, caressing the thin and fragile pages, going through them until he finds the right one.

 

He remembers the only advice Hannibal gave him; hears his voice is his ears telling him to try to make something he can eat a lot of before tiring of it, something mundane and simple: Will chooses French crepes because he lacks fantasy and originality, and is used to mass produced pancakes or the greasy, sticky and almost flavorless diner's ones.

 

He hopes his attempts won't be nearly as bad.

 

He reads the recipe three more times, before taking the ingredients one by one and following the process written in the book step by step, going far slower than someone with more experience may. The flour, the eggs and the milk melt together in a yellowish batter, and as he adds the rest the thinks about Hannibal attempting something new for the first time, about the concentrated look on his eyes he finds so endearing, because it reminds him how human he is under the iron mask he wears.

 

His dogs move around him, sniffing him, interested and attracted by the food on the counter, and he shushes them away, ignoring their sad moans.

 

When the batter is ready, he's stupid enough to disregard the little note on the page that advices to let it rest for a while, and goes straight to the pan: he's not surprised when he ends up wasting most of it on his first three messed up and badly shaped crepes, that get stuck to the metal and fall apart when he tries to fix his mistake and spread the batter in a better way.

 

He groans out loud, and, in the end, he doesn't even attempt to eat them, before tossing them into the trash half cooked; he understands that he could not succeed at first attempt, but he's not less frustrated.

 

The dogs stare at him, brush against his legs trying to encourage him, and he takes a minute to relax by running his fingers through their furs, warm and familiar under his fingers, before washing his hands carefully and trying again.

 

It can't be that hard to get it right, Will thinks while he practices the movements as he leaves the new, fresh bowl of creamy batter to rest: the little, wooden rack feels unsteady at first, uncomfortable and foreign, but his grips gets more sure soon enough, as he remembers watching Hannibal doing it.

 

Bigger and steadier hands, a soft smile on his face, his warm voice asking Will what he prefers for the filling. His phone, abandoned on the counter, seems to be mocking him, and he almost gives in and calls Hannibal to ask for advices, before stopping and telling himself he has to do it alone or he'll never learn. 

 

So much in his life came only through hard work and practice; he had to adapt to so many things it sounds stupid to give up on something so simple after only one attempt.

 

Instead he goes back to the ledger and feels disgustingly cheesy when he runs his fingers on the pages written by Hannibal, imagining him at his desk, carefully filling them, his concentrated frown on his face, his hands firm and elegant. 

 

Will wonders absently how he practiced the recipes, if he used them for his victims only after a lot of attempts, when he could be sure of the result not to waste precious meat like that.

 

It's all so removed from him, he can't even be appalled by his thoughts; they're aseptic and clinical, like a distant echo that can barely reach him: there's nothing behind his closed eyes, no flashes of empathy, no nightmares. 

 

But he asks himself if Hannibal, instead, still feels those memories, those instinctive mental processes far too fresh in his mind to let go of them completely; if he still feels compelled to act on his desires despite everything.

 

Maybe he still imagines killing; still considers what to take from his victims and what to cook with the organs.

 

Will feels a pang of guilt that shouldn't belong inside him, not when these are the thoughts that fill his brain: he shouldn't regret being the cause or the catalyst of this change inside Hannibal; this weight doesn't belong on his shoulders. 

 

But there it is, blossoming in his heart together with a longing fondness that makes him want to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, kiss his forehead and tell him that he's there, that he's not alone.

 

It's childish, like trying to fix a boat motor with the wrong tools and ending up making even more damage. He hopes this isn't what he's doing, but can't stop the thought from creeping into him.

 

Will sighs and goes back to work, before it all festers in his mind and makes it impossible for him to focus anymore.

 

His next attempt is more successful, his hands steadier and more at ease with every movement: Will tries to be as relaxed as he can manage, and in the end is rewarded by a little pile of four, slightly undercooked, but decent crepes. Will feeds them to his dogs and they lick his fingers happily as they eat from his hands, barking gratefully as if he's giving them an unexpected and rare gift. 

 

Their unfaltering loyalty always fills him with undeniable warmth and he takes another pause to play with them a little before getting back to work, surer of himself and less threatened by the challenge.

 

By mid afternoon, he has made three more experiments, and the last one finally makes him hopeful for the outcome of all of this: he still doesn't even come close to Hannibal's technique and ability, to the amazing taste he manages to produce, but it's a big progress from his first pitiful attempt, so he tries not to be too hard on himself.

 

Will eats the fruits of his hard work sitting on the porch, an afghan on his legs, a cup of coffee and his well earned plate of crepes filled with strawberry jam and butter; he watches his dogs run and relieve themselves on the bushes and trees all around his house and feels a smile rising to his lips.

 

The air around him is getting cold fast, but he doesn't move; he simply sits there and watches the sun going down, pink and golden rays of light filling the fields all around him, reflecting on his skin and in his eyes. 

 

Will thinks about Hannibal again: the cold tones in his house, the pristine look of it, the detached feeling that is only broken by the man himself and by the unexpected warmth of his desperate affection.

 

A flicker of memory passes through his brain and he remembers the blood on the cuffs of his shirt, the exhausted look on his face, the icy and dangerous aura that spread like an oil spill all around him that day, how it managed to freeze the very core of his bones. 

 

And the harsh contrast with the raw, open and almost vulnerable expression in his eyes, that brought him on his knees, that lit up inside him a violent need to destroy every trace of it with his kisses and touches.

 

Will sighs helplessly, massages his temples and realizes his thoughts keep hitting always on the same spot, and it feels sore and abused already as it is now: that part of him that gives in to Hannibal, that trusts him, but fears what he'll do at the same time.

 

Prey instinct and ability to adapt and survive all mixed together in him, to balance Hannibal's predatory skills, his perfect control, and the gaping hole of stunting desperation that consumes him at all times.

 

He finishes his coffee, before whistling to his dogs to bring them all back inside, allowing them to pile all around him while he settles in his corner to work on a new fishing lure, enjoying their comforting presence, needing it to drown the silence.

 

He doesn't call Hannibal and gets no calls in return that night.

 

\-----

 

Will works in slow, carefully organized stages, just like he does when he makes his lures: measuring the time he dedicates to each dish he learns and not moving to another until he's sure of his skills. 

 

In a couple of days, he has mastered the crepes fairly well, enough to be capable of doing the whole process by memory, without the safety blanket the ledger is starting to represent for him.

 

He actually starts one himself: writes down all the ingredients, the process as it feels more comfortable for him, adding a couple of tricks he picked up along the way; and feels oddly proud when he looks at it sitting on his desk, even though it has only one page filled.

 

Every time he approaches a new recipe, there's the thrill of getting closer to Hannibal, sliding deeply under the layers of his armor and pushing them back from the inside to expose his core; running his hands over it like he does with the ingredients he uses, manipulating them until he gets the desired result.

 

Will smiles to himself remembering their conversation, realizing that only a little part of him focuses on trying to link his growing culinary knowledge to Hannibal's crimes: the rest of him focuses on him; and the fracture that exists in his mind between the Chesapeake Ripper and the man he knows now becomes wider and wider.

 

It's dangerous, because he risks of losing sight of what Hannibal truly is, of the rotting cruelty of him, it's seducing; it opens new doors he never considered before, threatens to make him forget.

 

Will wants to taste both sides of him, no matter how removed from the present the one that kills may be. He decided that when he kissed him the first time in his office, knowing his lips were stained with blood; and he never looked back.

 

From the crepes, he moves on to small soufflés of mashed pumpkins and other squashes, that take him more than a week to learn, and fill him with a bitter frustration. 

 

But the reward is so satisfying once he finally learns how to get them right, that he can't help taking a picture of his accomplishment and sending it to Hannibal, receiving a polite and careful compliment in return.

 

After that, for the first time, he considers cooking for someone else to show off his new skills: not Hannibal, not yet at least, he's still too inexperienced; but the thought grows inside him.

 

And he starts to imagine what the people around him would like him to prepare for them.

 

He makes creamy cheese mashed potatoes called aligot that fill him so quickly the first time he eats them, he ends up having leftovers of them for days; but that also taste so good he doesn't even mind. 

 

A garlic soup that warms him up after a long day at work, and makes his house smell like it for days, covering the dogs' and dusty scent of it. 

 

It reminds him of a childhood in Louisiana, spent sitting in the kitchens of some old lady neighbor who was to look after him after school, with garlic braids pinned to the walls.

 

He gets better and better, more confident, more daring; he tries so many new things his fridge never quite empties itself, and even though he's always careful not to waste any food and shares all he cooks with his dogs, the slight feeling of abundance he experiences when he opens it and sees the results of his work, repays him of all the years of struggles, of not being sure when his next meal was going to be.

 

And it feels good.

 

It's not a process without accidents: once he slices his palm open, blood dripping everywhere and a numbing pain shooting through his whole arms; he doesn't need stitches, thankfully, but his hands throbs and hurts for a few days and he has to go by with leftovers until he feels better. When Hannibal sees his bandaged hands, he seems amused, but makes little comments.

 

He also suffers a couple little oil burns, but as he gets better, he gets hurt less and less.

 

Sometimes, when he's in bed and going through the pages of the ledger more out of habit than of need for it, Will tries to imagine the woman it used to belong to, the one who gave it to Hannibal: her writing is small, but careful, attentive, full of an immense respect for the book and the recipes, that he can feel sipping through it. 

 

A small, elegant and strong woman comes to his mind, her gray hair tied in a bun, a stern look on her face, but kind eyes, and wrinkly hands hardened by years of work.

 

Will wonders what Hannibal looked like back then; the young teenage boy who preferred to spend his days learning how to cook instead of making friends, who picked up quickly everything he was taught and never forgot one detail of it. 

 

A different person, not the one who attempted suicide just a few years before, and not the man he knows now.

 

At night, when he sleeps at his house, Will traces his face with the tips of his fingers, runs them over his skin while he's asleep and tries to read the lines of it his past carved on it, of the many people he used to be, and that disappeared inside him forever.

 

They barely discuss his progresses, and Will is surprised when he realizes that he almost prefers it, because it gives him room for a bit of mystery and keeps it separated from Hannibal's influence, making him believe all he does it really just because of his own desires, and not because he is far too seduced by the idea of emulating him and getting closer to him.

 

After surviving for so many years with precooked meals and takeouts, it's surprising how quickly he falls into the routine of making his own food, garnishing it, spending even hours preparing it, and how much more satisfying and healthy it is to sit down and eat it.

 

He can't fathom going back to his old habits, just as once he would've never imagined bothering so much to make food. 

 

It's a victory for him, and gives him possibly the most important piece of understanding related to Hannibal he'll get out of this experience: when he cooks, he doesn't have to think about anything else, all his troubles rest in the back of his head and leave him alone; he's so absorbed the whole world disappears.

 

The intensity of Hannibal's focus becomes so crystal clear to him now: he feels and understands the strength of it, the blessed emptiness that it creates inside him. 

 

His own head was always a prison for him; and now there's a little door he can use to get out of it, to breathe fresh air and disconnect from everything for a few hours to sink into something safer.

 

Just like Hannibal can wipe away all thoughts from him, and leave his mind a blank canvas with his hands, mouth, kisses and touches: making him feel clean and empty, while creating a friction inside him that grinds against his bones and leaves him breathless. 

 

Cooking transports him in a quiet place he can inhabit for a while when the world around him is overwhelming.

 

\-----

 

After a month and a half, Will has fifteen recipes written in his own ledger, has survived a good amount of failures and accidents, but this little new hobby is still a well guarded secret he struggles to decide to share with others.

 

Alana knows of course, she even lends him a couple of tools in one occasion; and peeks into his classroom sometimes to ask him about his progresses, just like he asks her about the baby and her mysterious boyfriend he still has to meet. 

 

And he tells Abigail to convince her to come visit him soon, so he can show her in person his new skills. The girl laughs and promises she will as soon as she has a break, leaving him even more motivated.

 

And Hannibal is there in the background, hovering over him in silence.

 

But the first person he decides to cook for, it's Beverly.

 

“So I gonna be your guinea pig or something? Do I have to write down my last will and say goodbye to my parents before eating your food?”

 

Will rolls his eyes, but smiles while he approaches her with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands; Beverly doesn't even look up to him and keeps petting his dogs, appreciating the happy welcome they reserve her.

 

“I don't think that will be necessary: I've been eating it for weeks and I'm perfectly fine, I'm sure you'll be too.”

 

“Considering the crap you used to eat, maybe you just build up some amazing immunity to any goddamn kind of food poisoning that exists. But I'm adventurous and willing to trust you, so bring it on.”

 

They both sit on his porch for a while, sipping their tea and watching the dogs playing in the morning sun; Beverly, surprisingly, is fairly quiet, even though Will catches her stealing glances at him, weighing out the changes she sees in him, his healthier look, how relaxed he seems to be; and she seems satisfied by it.

 

When Winston runs towards her and goes to rest his head on her lap, Will thinks about how familiar this all looks, and finds himself being thankful that their friendship managed to endure his nasty professional breakup with Jack and his semi-definitive retirement from active investigations. 

 

She stood by him, maybe didn't understand or accepted his decision, but remained his friend, was there when he needed her during his time in the hospital recovering from the encephalitis, and didn't give up on him.

 

There's a loyalty, a genuine one, there that Will doesn't feel like he deserves at all: not with all the secrets he keeps, with the ghosts he brings with him and the blood on his hands.

 

“Never picked you for a guy who would enjoy cooking, I'll be honest here. Except for the fish you catch yourself, you're totally a straight up takeouts dude.”

 

“Wouldn't have thought myself as one until I started either, to be honest. It felt so odd at first, actually putting efforts and time into making food. But I was surprised by how fast it became part of my routine, how easily I got used to it. Like digging out something that was always buried inside me and that took years to come out. And I guess it's good for me in general.”

 

“You do look much healthier than you did before, it's true. I can finally tell how handsome you are without that “about to drop dead” look you were sporting just a while ago.”

 

Will laughs, because she has a totally serious look on her face, even when her eyes are shining with an ironic light in them; and it's a brand of humor only she can master so well and make so effective. 

 

How Beverly can exorcize any situation is the only thing he misses about working with Jack. He doesn't reply and for a while they go back to their comfortable silence.

 

Again, she's the one who breaks it first.

 

“I'm not much the cooking type myself either; I like to experiment sometimes, when I'm not too hammered after work, but my parents live far too close to my place for me to give up some good old homemade dinner from my mom, you know?”

 

“Must be nice, to have such a good relationship with your family; still getting to spend so much time with them.”

 

Beverly scoffs and finishes her tea in one long sip; she doesn't pry into his life, doesn't ask about his family, maybe because she knows that eventually he'll mention it himself, just to get it over with and stop her speculations. It makes Will relax even more, because things can be surprisingly simple with her, and it's refreshing compared to all the other messed up and complicated relationships in his life.

 

“Yeah it is; it can also be a pain in the ass. Your siblings prying into your life, your mom reminding you you have to find a man as soon as possible, your dad worrying about how dangerous the job can get... I love my family, Will, like I really, really do; but sometimes having more space between me and them doesn't sound like a bad idea. Except that, of course, after a week I'd miss them terribly and regret all my choices!”

 

Will smiles, and truly wishes he had anything to reply to that, but his family life was, at best, empty and sad, and he doesn't want to ruin the mood with it.

 

“So, what are you going to make for me? Do I have to feel immensely honored because you're going to go through all the trouble to cook for me or are you just gonna reheat some old and nasty leftovers?”

 

“I would never do that, not with my first guinea pig, at least. But next time I'll absolutely treat you with my leftovers, since you insist. I've prepared some croquettes with potatoes and almonds; they're resting in the fridge and just need to be fried.”

 

She makes an exaggerated and mocking surprised face, but then her smile is so genuine it makes it impossible for Will not to reciprocate. She bumps his shoulder with her fist in appreciation.

 

“Wow, Will that actually sounds delicious. Lead the way, now that you've mentioned actual food, I realized I'm starving.”

 

It turns out that cooking for an audience doesn't make Will remotely as nervous as he had feared, especially when the audience is Beverly, who's unable to sit still and hover on him, but busies herself setting the table and bringing the dogs back inside, distributing cuddles and hugs equally between them all before going to wash her hands, coming back with a satisfied smile on her face.

 

It gives him room to focus on what he's doing, on measuring the cooking time, the temperature of the oil and the outcome of his dish: Beverly at times peeks, at others she wanders around his living room with one or two of his dogs tailing after her like they are absolutely smitten by her and can't help it.

 

“Every time I come here, I'm so tempted to try to steal your dogs, I'm not sure you deserve them!”

 

Will looks up only for a moment, while he carefully prepares Beverly's portion, shaking his head at her words. In the back of his mind, he wonders how Hannibal would garnish the plate, but he's not nearly as imaginative as he is, nor has the tools, so he decides not to try anything now, reserving his limited abilities for the dessert.

 

“I'd fight you for them; be aware.”

 

“You'd lose, I'm pretty sure I could take you.”

 

He has to nod at that, and when he finally settles down their plates, he manages to have her genuinely impressed. 

 

Beverly is so similar to him, in her own way: used to simple things and pleasures, and doesn't bother too much with complex food. 

 

But her smile is sincere, and for a moment he wonders what she'd say of Hannibal's dishes, if it'd be safe now to invite her over for dinner sometimes. Will files it somewhere in his mind; and then holds his breath when Beverly takes a bite.

 

She theatrically closes her eyes, then takes another one, like she really wants to be sure of her opinion, and chews slowly, until Will can tell she's mocking him, just a little, and snorts.

 

“This is really, really good, Will. I'm serious, okay, I'm not joking right now. You're really good at this. Wow. My mom cooks a lot better, but you're easily in second place after her.”

 

Will releases his breath and nods at Beverly, looking down for a moment, but feeling stupidly proud of himself for that small achievement; because appreciation is something he rarely gets to have, especially such a sincere kind.

 

Her smile is so genuine; she's genuine, and honest, caring is that rough way he finds endearing and more comfortable than any smothering affection or overwhelming presence: she's there when he needs her, but otherwise stays in her lane, and he's so grateful for Beverly in ways he'll never be able to tell her, but that he thinks she can feel anyway.

 

“I'm glad to hear that. Really. See? No need for last wills or goodbyes to your family. I'm not going to poison you after all.”

 

Beverly rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her beer.

 

“Hold on to that, champ, that's all to be seen! But, as long as I'm not vomiting all over your lap... yeah, let's say I'm gonna trust your cooking a little more after this. And I do I hope there's more where these comes from, because my stomach is ready to fight.”

 

Having lunch with Beverly is so different from his dinners with Hannibal or from eating out with Alana during their lunch break: it has a relaxed texture, something smooth and light that surrounds him and keeps him in an exceptionally good mood that feels different from what he has with anybody else. 

 

She talks about her family, her cat, of her sister who's about to get married and keeps insisting she brings a plus one despite her refusal, about Zeller and Price antics in the lab, and nags about her apartment and her landlord.

 

Will listens with a smile on his face and occasionally makes small comments, but allows Beverly to have the reins of the conversation, to rant to him about all that comes to her mind, like they're close enough to skip all other kinds of pleasantries; she's direct and rough, and that's how he likes her. 

 

He knows what to expect from her, and it's reassuring. When she follows him into the kitchen while he makes more croquettes, it feels natural.

 

He never really had friends as a kid, doesn't have any meaningful relationship tying him to his past; and it felt like missing an important part of his life, a blank space in the canvas of his life that he never got to paint, leaving it incomplete. 

 

This doesn't fix it, having Beverly as a friend; it doesn't change years and years of loneliness and isolation, and sometimes it makes him painfully aware of what he never had and lost forever.

 

But it's still good; it's still something he treasures dearly, that he doesn't want to lose.

 

Will is suddenly aware of the subtle change in her posture, while he's carefully checking the temperature of the oil and putting the first couple of croquettes into the pan, watching them sizzles and become golden: Beverly has her arms crossed on her chest, and stares at him like she's about to say something she knows he's not going to like, but is not sure if she wants to say it now. 

 

Winston relieves the tension when he goes to rub against her legs and she gets down to pet him again, even though she keeps to stare up to him, and he knows he won't get away with it, whatever it is that she's in store for him.

 

“Something you'd like to say?”

 

Beverly smiles, a little guiltily.

 

“Maybe, but I'd like to have my seconds first, so you won't be able to take away my food even if I piss you off.”

 

“There's still the dessert; try to stay on my good side until you have that too.”

 

“I can't believe you'd deprive me of basic sustenance! Who are you, what have you done with the real Will Graham?!”

 

They both laugh at that, but Will can't help wondering how different he looks to her now, if he really does: he knows he has changed; his life, the way he sees the world... there's something darker in it, but at the same time it feels firmer under his feet, less shaky and scary than it used to be. 

 

He's not afraid of himself anymore, of the people around him: he has the most terrible of demons safely anchored to him, and that seems to be all he needs.

 

He's not entirely free of the years of conditioning, abuse, shaming and isolation the world imposed on him because of his mind, that made him into an easy prey to be exploited and used: but now Will is himself again, his mind is his own; he earned his peace bleeding and raging and suffering through so much he can't help feeling proud of himself.

 

People notice it: his students approach him and he answers them, he has friends, his relationship with Abigail changed and improved. He feels healthy, he feels grounded. It's something he had never thought he could have.

 

But there's the other side of the coin, the one that reminds him that this truce was built on lies, blood and death: the fact that he doesn't even consider turning Hannibal in to Beverly, tells so much about how screwed up his priorities are now.

 

He tries to let it go, and focuses on cooking: holds the wood of the spatula hard in his fist, breathes in the scent of what he's preparing, feels the heat of the fire and allows his mind to go back to the task in front of him.

 

True to her words, she doesn't say anything until he comes back to the little dining room with the dessert: crepes with different fillings, sprinkled with powdered sugar and garnished with fresh fruits; Beverly looks even more impressed, and eats in silence for a while, complimenting him with a smile on her face.

 

“You're really good at this, at cooking. You probably, like, had some kind of hidden predisposition towards it, who knows and who cares honestly, but all this is just fantastic; and... you just look better, in general. Relaxed and strong, in some way. I'm glad you do, I really, really am...”

 

“I'm sure there's a “but” in there somewhere that's just waiting to come out...”

 

Beverly takes a deep breath, but doesn't look embarrassed or worried about how he could take her words, because she has always been direct with him to the point of being blunt; but he knows she cares about him, that she wants to be his friend, and that softens the edges of her words.

 

“But I can't help being sad you're not working with us anymore. And it's not just because I like you way more than Price and Zeller, but... you did good work, you truly helped, saved lives.”

 

“Did Jack put you up to this? Because, honestly, I don't want to drag you into our fights.”

 

“No one put me up to anything: this is me talking to you, just me. No agendas, no secrets or lies. Just me, Beverly.”

 

Will smiles at her; he has so many thoughts swirling in his mind: all the memories of those months he spent with his brain on fire, slaving and suffering and polluting himself with the minds of the monster Jack had him hunt, with no one there for him; with a guilt that ate him alive because he never felt good enough, worthy enough to be alive unless he was useful.

 

Something grotesque and repulsive, but that could at least be of some help when needed.

 

He inhales deeply and drinks his coffee, feeling the bitter taste spread in his mouth.

 

“I know that, that I was useful, that I saved lives... but I can't save others and let myself die, not anymore. I was sick, and I kept pushing myself, punishing myself to atone for sins I thought I had committed, and sometimes I felt like the biggest of them was existing, being alive. Helping people was important, but I was doing it for the wrong reasons, and in a way that hurt me. I almost died, Beverly, I could've died, or I could've hurt someone. I don't want to be in that position ever again. I can't help the FBI anymore like I used to. I need my mind to be my own; I need all the clarity I can have.”

 

A part of him, wonders if it's because of Hannibal; because of how dangerous and dark he is, but that's not entirely the only reason: Will is just different now. 

 

He needs different things and has grown into a thicker skin, one Jack Crawford can't get under to hook him with guilt and remorse like he used to. Hannibal is something he deals in a separate way, in the depth of his soul. He's personal.

 

Beverly nods after a while.

 

“I get that, I know that was an awful time for you, and I'm glad to see you're out of it.”

 

“I'm not “out of it”: I'll always be this way, able to slip into the mind of monsters and killers; I'll always have this empathy that threatens to swallow me. But now I'm stronger, I don't need to immolate myself to feel like I deserve the air I'm breathing. Jack doesn't get that, I know; to him I'm probably ruining everything, taking away an asset, and I know he's going through a lot with his wife: but this is my life. And I need to take care of myself.”

 

Will looks at her and she's smiling, bright and warm like only Beverly Katz knows how, like she's incredibly proud of him and wants him to know that. She's incredible, he's happy to have her in his life.

 

“I respect that, and you. But yeah, I do miss you, I won't lie on that. You're my favorite by far, what can I say! But you're right: it's your life; no one's gonna live it for you. So you do your thing and don't worry. We'll manage; we can always use Zeller as catnip for serial killers if we get desperate! I'm sure they'll all love him.”

 

They both laugh at that.

 

“I can come down to the lab sometimes; see how you're all doing. Maybe take a look at a file, but no more crime scenes, that I can't do. The last one left me feeling like shit; I know that's my limit.”

 

“As long as you're not a stranger, I'm cool with anything really.”

 

He knows how selfish he is, what a hypocrite: he's allowing a dangerous man like Hannibal to stay at large, keeps him in his life despite what he did, because he can't fathom to lose him; needs his presence right there in his life like the air he breathes. But he stopped trying to rationalize his needs a long time ago.

 

“I'll try not to be.”

 

Beverly smiles, kind and satisfied, and then changes the subject again; it doesn't escape Will how much efforts she puts into trying to understand him; it makes him wish he was easier to deal with. But she's not easily swayed; he knows she'll stick around.

 

When she leaves, he watches Beverly's car until it disappears from his sight, lost in the emptiness around Wolf Trap: the house is quiet again, the dogs remain peaceful even when he gets down to hug them, burying hands and face into their furs.

 

Will stays there for a while, basking in their simple affection, allowing the tension of the day to drain from his body. He feels good, satisfied with himself: for the food, for how it went with Beverly and he holds on to that feeling, stores it in the back of his mind for the future.

 

Then he finally gets up and calls Hannibal.


	5. sous chef

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having some issues deciding if this story is complete crap or not; most of the days I feel it is and I lose any will to write it.  
> But I will finish it.
> 
> As you may have noticed, the chapters count has changed from 8 to 9: that's because I don't feel like what I'm working on at the moment fits with the scene that will follow it. So it'll have a stand alone chapter.
> 
> Please tell me this isn't shit; thank you to those who stick around.
> 
> I also have ([a tumblr](http://papenrichard.tumblr.com/)) if you wanna reach me there.

“Your house looks different for some reason. Did you change anything around here since the last time I came to visit?”

 

Will looks up from the food he's working onto the table, just in time to see Abigail walk towards him, wearing one of his shirts on top of her sweater, thick wool socks on her feet and a pair of old jeans that are probably one of the last remains of the stack of clothes Alana bought for her. 

 

The dogs hurry to pool around her again, just like they did when she first arrived; as if they missed her so terribly in the short time she was in the bathroom, that they needed to reassert their love for her, and she dedicated a few minutes to each of them, before getting up again and joining him in the kitchen. 

 

Without saying anything she sits on the counter and stares at the apples he's cutting, waiting for his answer.

 

“Let's see: I got rid of all those old boxes by the piano, bought new chairs, changed the curtains and repainted the living room, but the new color isn't really that different from the old one; you have really good eyes.”

 

She smiles and steals a chunk of fruit, making him shake his head.

 

“I like it; now everything looks less shabby and worn out. It gives the whole house a more finished impression. Like someone actually lives in it. And it feels warmer as well: in a familiar way.”

 

“I'm glad it pleases you. I had the piano tuned, by the way, so... if you ever want to use it...”

 

Abigail smiles and nods absently, still looking around herself while Will goes back to work, stealing glances at her from time to time; she looks older than she did a few months ago: her subtly dyed dark red hair surrounds her face and gives it a different look, a more mature one. 

 

But there's a youthful glow on her face, a peace that reminds him that she's still a girl who's just now finally living her life the way she should, and it makes Will smiles to himself.

 

He puts a few more chunks of apple on a plate and hands it to her, earning a pleased grin that makes his stomach flutter with something that feels almost like pride.

 

“Would it be weird if I asked you how school is?”

 

“It's not weird; and school is fine. Not too busy, I can go things at a relaxed pace for now. The place is nice, the teachers are good, and the people are okay. I can't complain at all. I have my freedom, and that's what matters.”

 

Will nods and notices how she doesn't look at him while saying all this, but doesn't point it out.

 

“Are you making friends? Hanging out with the other students there?”

 

“Not really, I prefer to keep to myself for now; being around too many people after being isolated at the hospital for so long... it can be hard, you know? But I'm trying to be social during classes, at least, don't worry. I'm not going to shut myself away in my apartment and rot in an attic, like in some Gothic novels.”

 

He laughs at that.

 

“I know you won't do that. I wasn't very outgoing during college as well; there's nothing wrong with taking time to find your footing before starting to meet new people or making friends. You'll be fine. Also, you weren't left by your fiance right before the wedding, so you have no excuses to become recluse.”

 

Her laugh is crystalline and pure to his ears, a sound he missed so dearly and that's beautiful to hear again.

 

“I can't believe you just made a Dickens joke. You're such an old, grumpy man.”

 

“I can be very resourceful, and I'm not that old. So what do you do when you don't have to study, instead of hanging out with the other kids?”

 

She makes a face at that, mocking him with her reaction, and Will tries not to feel embarrassed because of that, not to sound like an adult that only wants to patronize her by trying to sound younger, instead of being genuinely curious.

 

“Not much. I walk a lot in woods around the college: I can stay there for hours doing nothing but sitting under the trees. I read, watch new shows. I'm experimenting with freedom and responsibilities, I guess: trying to understand how to find the best balance between them. I go out for dinner once in a while, but not very much; I don't like being bothered in public.”

 

Will looks at her, but her eyes are focused on the dogs lying in a furry pile in front of the fireplace, waggling their tails or dozing off in their beds. 

 

She focuses on his latest addition, an old, gray mutt that keeps to himself, still too wiry and suspicious to get used to the domestic life after so many years on the streets. 

 

He wonders if she feels some kind of connection with him, if she thinks of herself as a stray with no place in the world, that struggles to fit in and never feels truly welcomed anywhere.

 

Abigail breathes softly in the silent kitchen and he's mesmerized by the expression on her face, by her hair and her posture, by how his shirt fits her and falls on the curve of her body. It feels like he hasn't seen her in years and he can't stop staring.

 

If she's aware of it, she makes no comments; but Will is trying so hard not to fall back on the old, unhealthy habits he used to have with her, on the possessiveness and the creepy attempts at being a father figure she didn't want or need, that is hyperaware of everything he does.

 

Of how much space he occupies next to her, and tries to keep a comfortable distance to set her at ease.

 

“Have you decided what to call him?”

 

“Not yet, didn't have time to. And I was thinking maybe you could come up with something.”

 

Abigail smiles, a distant smile that appears on her face just for a moment. She looks at him for a long moment, noticing the distance between them, but the warmth in his words, and responds to it with a long sigh and then looks away.

 

Will wipes his hands on a towel and then, very gently, giving her all the time she needs to back away from his touch, runs his fingers through her hair and gently caresses her cheek, until she turns towards him and smiles again, more brightly this time.

 

Her eyes have a sadness in them that never disappears, just like his own do, and what they both have inside is a deep scar that nothing will ever erase or heal completely; a deep seethed pain that follows them even when they are at peace. 

 

For a moment, they stay still, looking at each other, then she pulls him into a hug and he breathes in her scent, holds her close when she buries her face into the crook of his neck and grabs the back of his shirt. 

 

Abigail is so light in his arms, so frail, like a feather, and he feels clumsy and unnecessary, but leans into the embrace anyway, because their physical contacts are so rare, so precious and they mean too much for him to waste them. She's more important to him than he'll ever understand completely, and seeing her safe is fundamental for him.

 

They stay like that for a long time, finding comfort in that simple gesture, relinking all the loose threads between them and clinging to one another.

 

“I've missed you.”

 

Will smiles and kisses her temple, disentangling himself from her to look her in the eyes.

 

“I've missed you too.”

 

And they both knows it's true; just like they know that the time they spend apart is good for them, what is right. 

 

That freedom far away from the mess that are of Will and Hannibal's lives is what Abigail needs to start anew, to leave behind the darkest parts of her nightmares and breathe more easily, to find her direction and grow.

 

Abigail observes him while he finishes the cake, puts it in the oven, and then starts on the rest of the dinner, silently measuring all his movements, maybe comparing them to Hannibal's in her mind, and an amused smile appears on her lips at that: Will asks himself how they appear to her, in their similarities and differences, if they blend into once abstract unit when she's away and doesn't deal with them, or if they're sharply separated in her mind.

 

He doesn't ask, and she doesn't say anything.

 

“What do you want to do after dinner?”

 

“We could watch something on my laptop, I have so many shows to check out. Or just listen to some music, walk the dogs, be boring all night. I'm not sure what else could we do out here in the middle of nowhere, it's a miracle you got electricity!”

 

“All right, all right, none of that attitude! You love this place just as much as I do.”

 

Abigail stops laughing and then nods very seriously, looking around like she's appeasing his house to give him a verdict on his statement.

 

“I do; it's quiet here. You have so much space all around you, you don't have to worry about people peeking in, you have your dogs... All that peace and quiet is the only thing I miss about my old house. And the woods. The Minnesota woods felt like home to me more than any other place...”

 

Will stops grinding the pepper for a moment and is unsure how to proceed, what to say: it's still difficult for both of them to talk about her family, about Garret Jacob Hobbs, about what happened and the wounds those events left on their skin. 

 

His eyes focus for a moment on the scar on her neck and he feels a sudden, overwhelming desire to kiss it, even just touch it, to make her feel that he knows, that he understands, but holds back and puts on a kettle instead, switching between activities to give himself something to do.

 

“Do you ever think about going back there? Even though you sold the house and everything?”

 

“No, I don't think I ever will. Not now, at least. Some places are stained now, some people too. You gotta let them go, leave them behind or they'll haunt you forever.”

 

Will sighs and rubs his temples, taking off his glasses for a moment: suddenly he feels tired, like a shadow is hanging over his shoulders, weighting on his body. 

 

He breathes in and out a couple of times, thinks about her words, about the truth in them and how deep they cut, before going back to the pepper to have something to do while he waits for the water to boil, focusing on his hands, on the scents around him.

 

“Sometimes even if you do let them go, they still haunt you. Or you allow them into your life because you need them; you chain yourself to your demons so you know where you stand.”

 

She smirks vaguely, knowing far too well what he means.

 

“I was wondering when you were going to bring up Hannibal. I spoke to him on the phone a few days ago. He sounded... absent, but I think you know that better than I do.”

 

“Things are just being a little weird right now; he's... in a strange place, I guess, separated from us. Like he's losing himself in old memories, in something we know nothing about. But it's not something you need to worry about, and we can talk about it later. Let's not ruin dinner, and lets talk about you instead.”

 

Abigail smiles softly, as she watches him preparing steak au poivre, checking on the cake in the oven and then starting to clean some of the mess in the kitchen, with the ledger in her hands, sometimes going through the pages, sometimes looking at him instead; like she's trying to read the situation both from the book and from his body.

 

“This must mean a lot to him. You know, as much as things can mean to him... especially if he gave it to you only when you asked for his help. He could have given you manuals, other books, some with even better explanations. Or slipped it to you way before, to tangle you closer to him; but instead he waited for you to ask... And did you ever consider that this is probably one of the few things he has left of his adolescence? And he gave it to you, trusted you with it. It's weird, but totally something he would do.”

 

Will hands her a steaming cup of chamomile, watches her drink a few sips, drinks some as well, before taking a deep breath. Her words echoes Alana's ones, but he doesn't mention it; he thinks on them instead, even more now. About how trust and manipulation seem to merge together in Hannibal's actions.

 

“There's so much you can read in all his gestures. It's exhausting sometimes, trying to understand: you never know how to handle him, what to make of his words. If he's manipulating you or being honest... and he can also be manipulative and honest at the same time. You want to trust him when he's sincere, but everything tells you not to. It's... a mess.”

 

“But you stay with him: you know who he is, what he is, what he has done to you, to all those people, what he made us all eat. And no matter what he did or does, you still stay, you cover for him.”

 

Will doesn't reply: he just smiles, almost sadly, and knows she understands. Abigail may have left, be away from their complicated lives, but she knows him and Hannibal better than anyone else, and it's its own brand of cruelty that the one person who can understands how he feels, is also the one he wants to protect and keep away from it all; the one he wants to keep safe even if it means letting her go.

 

Abigail deserves it, something that may not be happiness, because happiness is impossible for people like them, with the dark and hungry monsters hidden in their hearts; but at least she can have some peace, a normal life, a future to believe in. Something Will never truly had.

 

And that prospect is enough for him; that small hope keeps him going.

 

She doesn't say anything more; accepts his silence and nods, like she can see the turmoil inside him and takes it as it is. She goes to set the table instead.

 

\-----

 

They mostly discuss her school, her new life and how she spends her days during dinner, switching off all the other questions, all the other topics that pile all around them like ruins of a forgotten civilization, and focus on some genuine bonding between them, something they almost never get to do.

 

Abigail smiles so much, her faces heated by the couple of glasses of wine she has, her eyes shining with a joy and a vitality he longed to see in them, that transforms her into a beautiful woman, so different from the sad, apathetic girl she was before.

 

“The food is great, Will, really.”

 

“I'm glad you think so.”

 

She eats a little more of it, swallowing very slowly, then washes it down with some water and then crosses her arms on her chest for a few moments, like she's attentively considering it, to give him her most honest opinion.

 

“It's very different from Hannibal's: you two may use the same recipes, but the way you cook them it's simpler, more immediate. You could drown in what he prepares, all those spices, scents, tastes... they can be distracting and overwhelming, which I guess is part of the point, in some ways. Yours are more honest and less complicated, without being bland; easy, is the word that comes to my mind. I like it.”

 

He drinks a long sip of red wine and wipes his lips on one of his old napkins, thinking about the harsh contrast of cooking elaborated dishes in his bare and rustic house, with the littlest amount of presentation mixed with his absolute inability to be original in any kind of embellishment. 

 

Food is and always will be a basic need more than a pleasure for him: every kind of food worked for him when he was a kid, and had no idea when the next meal was going to be. 

 

Everything he could put under his teeth and could placate the hunger in his stomach was acceptable, he wouldn't have turned away anything. Taste was secondary; and now, after years of garbage food and drinks, his palate is probably compromised anyway.

 

But her words make him aware of all the efforts he's actually putting into this, into all he made since he started learning: Will wants to be good at it; wants what he cooks to taste amazing, likes the appreciation he gets in return.

 

When he brought some freshly made pastries to the Academy for his students, the result of an insomniac night haunted by terrible nightmares he desperately wanted to escape, he remembers with a fond smile all the compliments he received, the happy faces of the cadets, the sarcastic, but positive comments from Price and Zeller, Beverly's proud expression: it felt good, it felt great actually. He wants that again.

 

Maybe that's what Hannibal seeks too, in his own way, when he cooks, when he plays all his roles, when he kills: he wants the beauty, and the terror that comes with it, the appreciation and the awe. 

 

He may not be after them in the same scale, he doesn't need the grandeur of his dinner parties, or the elaborate construction of his dishes, but the smiles, the satisfaction... that's something he never received before in his life, and it's something Hannibal gave him the chance to have.

 

“I guess we're just too different, no matter what. We went through different lives; he wants to perform, to bewitch with all his does. He wants to be adored. I'm content with feeding you and making you happy for one night because my food was good.”

 

Abigail rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling, which he supposes it's a good sign.

 

“You did good, yeah. I can't really complain.”

 

And she doesn't: the cake seems to be especially of her liking, and she eats two big slices of it with a genuine big smile; she even looks a little sleepy, but sated when they go back into the kitchen and she helps him with the dishes.

 

While he's drying the last plates, she hugs him from behind and buries her face in the warmth of his back, breathing softly against the texture of his shirt. Will allows Abigail to stay like that for a long moment, caressing her hands that rest on his stomach.

 

It's so quiet around them, the noises of the world are so far away: Will wishes he could bottle this moment and keep it safely tucked away, to revisit it when he needs it, a warm blanket he can wrap himself into when he's overwhelmed.

 

When he's with her or with Hannibal, the silence inside him, even inside his mind, becomes absolute.

 

Later, they watch “Twin Peaks” from her laptop, cramped on his old couch, with Abigail's head perched on his shoulder, and her soft laughs resonating through their bodies.

 

It's so easy to immerse himself in visual media, to let the stories and the characters fill him and block out all the rest, giving his mind an escape; it must be the same for Abigail, because they're both relaxed, satisfied by the food and the atmosphere, smiling quietly. They both need a place where they can be themselves safely.

 

“Maybe we could call the new dog Agent Cooper.”

 

“Yeah, I think it suits him, he does look as reliable and strong as Agent Cooper.”

 

Abigail coaxes the dog to come to her and pets him until he relaxes in her arms and welcomes her cuddles, whispers to him, and Will wonders... he wonders so many things.

 

How it would be if she lived with him, if she left college and came back. 

 

They could be a family, with Hannibal and the dogs: but it would be selfish to drag Abigail back into their problems, in their messed up and delicate balance that is permanently on the verge of breaking. And with her he doesn't want to be selfish.

 

Alana calls to know how they're doing, and mostly talks to Abigail, who, after some convincing from both of them, agrees to see her before going back to school.

 

While the two women talk, Will refills the dogs' bowls and then settles on the couch again with a stack of papers to grade, waiting for Abigail to return.

 

“She still worries a lot about you, you should give her another chance.”

 

“Maybe. Seems pointless though, since I'm always away and I only come here to see you or Hannibal.”

 

“All I'm saying is that it's not a bad thing to have other people in your life.”

 

“Says the one who lived half his life as a complete recluse!”

 

Will snorts, but takes the hit graciously while Abigail keeps petting the new dog, who's rubbing his head against her thigh.

 

“But I guess it won't hurt to see her before I leave, especially now that she's having a baby. Shouldn't be too bad.”

 

And that's good, a progress; another positive sign of her healing, he thinks.

 

Will works for about an hour before taking a break, while Abigail reads one of the books she brought with her with her feet resting in his lap under a thick blanket: the fireplace creaks in the background, and Will can catch the heavy breathing of the dogs, the wind and the rain outside, and the delicate turning of the pages.

 

He thinks about getting them some warm milk and a few of the cookies he made the day before, but getting up feels like too much trouble. The warmth is so soothing he doesn't want to get away from it.

 

“What are you reading?”

 

“John Keats' poems; I have an essay to write on them due next month.”

 

Her faces is illuminated by the fire in beautiful ways, gold and red reflecting in her eyes and on her hair, giving her an almost unearthly look, an ethereal aura. 

 

And yet Abigail looks so human and frail to him: he still wakes up in pools of cold sweat after dreaming about her with her throat slashed open and blood pooling under her body. He still feels the gun heavy in his hand after shooting her father, the pungent smell of gunpowder, Hannibal's strong fingers clawing at him as he wrapped them around her neck and saved her life.

 

Will wonders how much of their loyalty to him is linked to that one precise moment, to that one act he did. A mercy that blinds them to his cruelty.

 

“He was only twenty-four when he died, and his poetry remained mostly unknown for years, before it was rediscovered. Imagine if it hadn't been... how it would be like to disappear into nothingness after such a short life. Nobody knowing what you did, wondering what you could've achieved if you had lived longer...”

 

Abigail's eyes are looking past him, into something far away he can't see: an early death must be something that has weighted on her mind for so long, that maybe still does. He stares at her scar once again.

 

“His poetry is riddled with fatality, with this... feeling of inevitability. It's beautiful, but sad even in the most hopeful compositions, it's like death was always on his shoulder and he was perfectly aware of it. Like he could feel it there at all times and it never let him go, not even for a moment.”

 

“Death is on the shoulder of all of us.”

 

“Some people are more aware of its presence than others.”

 

Will feels suddenly cold, chilled to his bones, and looks away from her before nodding softly. Abigail reaches out and takes his hand, her warm, delicate fingers rubbing against his skin: she smiles at him, and he smiles back, like he wants to chase away the ghost that was hovering over them.

 

\-----

 

It's almost midnight when he decides to call it a day and puts the papers away, a headache building behind his eyes, his limbs heavy and tired. Abigail is playing with the dogs in her pajamas, her book forgotten on the table.

 

Will doesn't have to work the next day, since he took the whole week off to stay with her, but has no idea what her plans are and doesn't want to look like a zombie the whole time; also they have dinner with Hannibal in the a couple of days, and he needs all his strength for that. 

 

He spends a moment more enjoying the sight of her and the dogs, before rising from the couch with some difficulty.

 

“Hey, I'm going to bed.”

 

“Can I sleep with you?”

 

Her question is so simple, so direct, and her voice is so earnest, he can't help but nodding in agreement.

 

“Sure.”

 

Abigail rests her head on his chest, her hair brushing against the curve of his jaw, her small body curled on his side: she smells good, clean, and the warmth spreading under them is comfortable like an old blanket that can always chase away the winter colds.

 

Will is so tempted to sink right away into sleep, close his eyes and focus on her even breaths, on the rise and fall of her chest, on the delicate scent that comes from her and the soft texture of her hair tangled around his fingers.

 

Instead he waits for her to talk, sensing her incoming words in the little sighs she makes; in how she shifts against him awkwardly, trying to find the perfect position. He tries very hard not to read her, not to empathize with her like he does with the monsters he hunts, but sometimes the need for it itches under his skin and he can barely stop himself from scratching it.

 

“Do you really think he wants to stop?”

 

Will sighs.

 

“I'm not sure this is a question of wanting; I think he enjoys the idea of the challenge, of giving up something that was such a huge part of his life and of his identity to see what will happen.”

 

Abigail says nothing for a while; he wants to know what she's thinking, but is also afraid to hear it, because she's so good at understanding him, them, she's far too smart for her own good and her eyes can pierce through him mercilessly, digging into all his open wounds.

 

“Do you think he's doing it for you?”

 

“I hope not, I don't want that responsibility on my shoulders. His decision to kill or not should be all his, not depend on me.”

 

“And yet... you know you're part of the process, in a sense: on one hand, he's showing you something different, new sides of him. And on the other... he knows you'd never turn him in if he stopped killing. You're an influence on him, just as much as he's one on you.”

 

Will nods, massages his eyes and inhales deeply, while Abigail remains perfectly still in his arms.

 

“He's in a odd place right now: he's distant, there's something... obscure that moves into him, like a new, strong need he's become pray of and that he never anticipated. I try not to trust him, because he lives and breathes manipulation, but at the same time... sometimes he's so honest, I can't help doing it. And I can't help knowing he's hurting somewhere deep into him and that I can't do anything to help. When I don't know what's going on with him, I'm at loss, I don't know how to move in his life: everything I do seems to work against me and I just want to scream at him to go fuck himself and stop being a cryptic asshole.”

 

Abigail laughs and then caresses the profile of his face with the tip of her fingers. She's wearing a burgundy nail polish that shines in the yellow light on his bedside.

 

“This whole cooking business is messing him up, or at least it's part of the problem. His internal balances are so delicate I don't know how to fit into them without destroying them and messing it all up...”

 

“You can trust him to be who he is. And you're the only one who knows what and who he is for you. But I can tell you this, I guess: if he's genuinely curious about what will happen if he stops killing, then he probably will.”

 

“You just can't be sure it'll be a permanent change. And of course I know that if he really stopped... I'd keep him safe, that I would never turn him in, just like you said: I'm weak like that, I can't give him up now and he knows it. But how much this weights on his decision, it's hard to know.”

 

Will looks at her and is in awe of how she looks, of the knowing smile on her lips, of her words, of how safe knowing that she understands him makes him feel: he hopes she feels the same, that when she calls him and tells him about her day or what's bothering her, she can find the same amount of safety in him.

 

Somewhere along the line, they grew up; they changed and their relationship grew with them: and if it's Hannibal he has to thank for that, he does it gladly.

 

“Don't think too much about it, it's pointless and you know it. When he's ready to talk, he will. You should focus only on yourself, on continuing to do as well as you have been so far.”

 

“I wish it were so easy...”

 

Abigail kisses his cheek and then goes back to lie down on top of him, holding one of his hands in hers, like she wants to reassure him. He looks at her, right in the eyes, and something creeps into him.

 

“Do you resent me for persuading him to let you go? I know you said no already, but... sometimes I still have the feeling I removed your agency and choose for you.”

 

She sighs against his chest, dark burgundy nails against the gray of his tee.

 

“I made my own choices, and they were not about you or Hannibal, but only about me. You gave me the chance to go away, to have my own life and I took it because it was what I wanted, what I needed. Assuming I only did for you, because you allowed it to happen, is selfish. And it makes you an asshole.”

 

Will laughs, kisses the top of her head and relaxes again.

 

“Fine, you're right, I'll shut up about it.”

 

But he can't hide how her words makes her feel, and she rolls her eyes at him, but in a benevolent way he adores.

 

“I'm still proud of you, don't worry. Goodnight, Will.”

 

Will watches her closing her eyes, relaxing against him, waits and waits until her breathing becomes even, until she falls into the oblivion of sleep.

 

She looks beautiful, like a painting.

 

“Goodnight, Abigail.”

 

He takes a deep breath, before turning off the light and closing his eyes.

 

\-----

 

It's spending a whole day with her after so long, that reminds Will how much he missed Abigail and how good her company is for him; they take it easy and spend the morning home, walking through the fields and the woods of his propriety, the dogs scattered around them and the girl going after then until her cheeks are red from both the cold and the running.

 

She looks so young, carefree and vital like this, and Will has the feelings he's catching small glimpses of the girl she used to be before her life became hell. 

 

He can't help wondering how her life could've been if nothing had happened, if she'll ever be able to build something of her own that will not be tainted by what happened to her, by the terrible memories of her father.

 

Abigail holds his hand from time to time; her small, dry and soft palm pressed against his, and he already knows he'll feel terribly when she'll leave again: it has been not even a day, and Will's mind is already projecting their inevitable separation. She brings some order and perspective, gives him her insights, and he misses all of it when she's gone, like a gaping hole in his life that her phone calls and small visits cannot fill.

 

He loves her so much, it was shocking to realize it: he loves her like the little sister he never had, the friend that was always missing from his life, the soothing presence he needs so badly when his life is a mess. He hopes he's the same for her, even if just a little bit.

 

Maybe she notices the different look in his eyes, because she smiles at him, tells him not to worry so much, before starting some idle game with the dogs and pulling him in it, until that expression is gone and those thoughts are relegated in the back of his mind.

 

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?”

 

Abigail shrugs, picking at a small rock with the tip of her boot, until it rolls away from her: they're sitting on his porch, drinking hot chocolate filled with marshmallows; she seems happy and serene, and that's what matters to him.

 

“We could have dinner. You, me and Hannibal.”

 

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

 

“Do you celebrate it?”

 

“When I was younger, yes, I did. I loved it; the anticipation and all that, you know? And Christmas for me also meant a bigger and slightly tastier free meal I could get at church, if it was a very bad year; or at home, if it was a particularly good one.”

 

“What church was it?”

 

“Catholic. But some years I was so desperate and hungry I would go anywhere and get away with it; it's not polite to ask a hungry little boy that spends Christmas alone at a food bank if he's a believer, I suppose. As long as I had some food, I didn't care. But I went to mass, and I really loved it. It was peaceful; I could relax there.”

 

Will told her before about his childhood, so she just nods, not pressing the issue further. He considers, again, because the thought surfaced many time in his mind, if that's why now he's enjoying learning how to cook so much: like it's in some form therapeutic to regain control on his nutrition, exorcizing all those years of underfeeding and neglect.

 

“We didn't celebrate much either, we weren't religious. But my mom was a good cook, and I helped too. We had nice days.”

 

“I'm sure it was lovely.”

 

Her smile is so sad it breaks his heart, but she doesn't dwell on it, like she never does when her family is mentioned. 

 

Those are things better left in the past, she seems to be saying, and he understands because there's so much he wants to forget just as much: the hunger of those days, the coldness that came from his father, the lack of love, the bullying and abuse he had to live with at school...

 

It's nothing compared to what she went through, but it makes both of them survivors in their own ways: it gives them a bond very difficult to break.

 

“It could be lovely again, with all of us.”

 

Will, with a sigh, hopes she'll be right in the end, like so often she can be, in her wisdom beyond her years that makes him grateful for it, and sad because of the innocence she lost to acquire it.

 

He thinks about Hannibal more often than he'd like to; like he's a background noise he can ignore for a while, before it comes back to haunt him.

 

Will think about what he means for both of them: how he fits in between their dynamic and how they can always feel his presence even when he isn't there. 

 

They both miss him, but in different ways; they both long for him, no matter how dangerous he is: he's the shadow that slides on them and keeps all of them bound together.

 

Abigail looks at him, her mouth curved in a smile, and he nods.

 

\-----

 

They go shopping one day; Abigail tries on dresses that make her look so remotely different from how she usually appears to him, that Will needs a moment to reconcile the two images.

 

She wants something nice to wear for their dinner with Hannibal, and he can't say no to her, even though he feels awkward and trapped while sitting in the department store waiting for her to come out of the fitting room. For the first time, Will wonders what people will think, seeing them like this, buying clothes, going around together, and it only adds to how uncomfortable he feels there.

 

“Which one do you like best?”

 

“I'm really not the best judge, you should've come with Hannibal.”

 

Abigail rolls her eyes, and he laughs and nods.

 

“Fine, fine... I really like the black and blue, and the red one. They both looks great on you, I can't choose one.”

 

“Can we take both?”

 

He's not sure how much both of those cost, but realizes that he doesn't care if it means making her happy, doing something for her that will strengthen their relationship. So he just nods and her smile is worth every penny he'll spend.

 

“Do you ever... wonder how people may see us? What they think we are to each other?”

 

“Maybe they think you're my brother. Or my much older and wealthy boyfriend.”

 

Will laughs, while he helps her try on a new coat, watching their reflections in the mirror in front of them: they do look alike enough to pass for siblings, but the way she, on purpose now, leans against him would give many people a different impression.

 

“Again, if you wanted to give off that vibe, you should've gone out with Hannibal.”

 

“I prefer you, you're more relaxed, you let me choose what I like, don't try to direct my taste. It's comfortable, you're comfortable. You're also completely unhelpful and your fashion sense sucks, but nobody's perfect.”

 

He ruffles her hair and kisses the top of her head, making her shriek in surprise.

 

They get a couple of new shirts for him as well, and by the end of the day, they're full of bags; Will can't bring himself to care about the money at all. 

 

Hannibal would've been so different and confident; when he goes out with him, the man insists on buying him things, and in that simple habit, Will sometimes reads a lot: a secret and unspoken need the man has to take care of people and mold them to an image similar to his own, the needs to manipulate and to spoil that coexist precariously inside him.

 

He always asks himself how he does it, living so many contradictions without losing track of who he is. 

 

Their days together are so easy and simple, almost light, and while it's not perfect, because they're complicated people, even when they argue it's so normal they can't even stay mad for long, and fighting seems to be just another part of the healing process: Abigail adamantly refuses to go fishing with him, and makes a face when he comes back dirty and stinking, but helps him cook what he caught, and compliments him.

 

It's almost dangerous, because they could both lose themselves in this when they both know it's temporary, when they know they're solitary people who need their space. They miss each other and, at the same time, know their separation is for the best.

 

Will welcomes the day Abigail spends with Alana to reacquaint himself with having the house for himself. And even more, they welcome being finally invited for dinner.

 

\-----

 

Dinner with Hannibal turns out to be far less awkward and tense that he expected it to be: the man is charming, welcoming and warm as usual, and his smile is so true and honest, Will is hit by the strength of it. 

 

He's is taken aback by the realization that he's truly glad to see him again after their time apart; they quickly kiss in the kitchen, and Hannibal runs a hand through his hair and on the back of his neck almost possessively, like he's afraid his grip on him may have loosened and he's reaffirming it, reminding him who he belongs to.

 

It makes him smile in that sly way he knows Hannibal enjoys, and prompts him to caress his face with a slight hint of nails in his touch. The man kisses him again, more forcefully, and only Abigail's voice interrupts them and forces them to be civilized adults again.

 

The food is delicious, the company is perfect: Abigail's beautiful in one of her new dresses, and once again Will entertain his thoughts of a family life he knows will never be, but that weights on his mind anyway; with dangerous images of Hannibal with children running around him, with the man holding a baby in hands that, they both know it, are soaked red in blood.

 

He can't help asking himself what kind of fathers they'd both be, and a part of him is grateful they'll probably never find out: it'd be too much, too hard. 

 

This is the best they can both do: share a life with someone who knows the monsters inside their hearts and understands them. But bringing someone else, anyone, into this precarious equilibrium would destroy it.

 

And maybe there's a part of him, no matter how small, that just wants to have Hannibal all for himself and is happy for it.

 

Abigail smiles all night, and they both do as well: Will notices the distant aura Hannibal is still emanating, some stiffness in him that makes it clear that whatever problems he has, they're all still there, piling behind his perfect facade. But for one night, he chooses not to care, not to focus on any of it, but on how beautiful they can all look together if the current halts, if the darkness all around them is chased away.

 

It's an illusion and not one at the same time: it's what they could be if things were different, what they can be if they all stop pretending and accept their own truths. Will knows they're all broken, damaged and sick in their own way, all locked in different little hells, but they're together and for one night it's enough.

 

Not healthy or good for any of them, but enough.

 

Will is far too aware of the ever growing cancer Hannibal Lecter is in their lives: that from the moment he appeared into their lives, he destroyed whatever chance of happiness away from him they could've had.

 

He wants to hate him; to hate himself for being unable to let him go, for allowing him to remain free and continue to poison his life and his mind.

 

And he can't; he's almost proud of the madness they share. He takes Hannibal's hands under the table, and the smiles he receives is a balm on his heart and, at the same time, another envenomation.

 

“She looks very happy. I am sure part of it is thanks to you.”

 

Hannibal whispers those words in the crook of his neck, unfastening his pants and caressing his already bare chest; Will breathes softly and licks his lips, before turning around and kissing him again, safely in the privacy of the bedroom now.

 

“She is healthy. Maybe she is not happy, maybe she will never be, but she is getting better. She's building her own life. That's what matters.”

 

Will kisses Hannibal's neck and his chest, holds him close when they sink on the bed, pushing him under; and then smiles.

 

“Maybe it's being away from us, from me, that is doing the trick. A tempting thought, isn't it?”

 

Hannibal caresses Will's throat, no pressure, but the gesture makes him grin, grab the hand and kiss the fingers, suck on them until the man under him sighs and makes an even louder appreciative sound when he adds the faintest amount of teeth.

 

“I don't want to get better. I don't want to get away from you: there's nothing tempting about it for me.”

 

“Not even the possible prospect of a happier and healthy life? Of a family?”

 

Will licks his collarbone, bites his shoulders and then sucks on the bite.

 

“You're what I want, what I deserve to have. It's enough.”

 

Hannibal's grin is all teeth, all oozing cruelty and danger, but he can't be totally convincing, because there's the tender way in which he strokes him, the care he puts in every touch, the hidden warmth in his eyes only he can see: Will's so high on wine, adrenaline and euphoria, all he wants is to be devoured, to be eaten alive and see his mouth red with his blood.

 

He thinks about Abigail safe in her room, in her new life, and knows, with a shiver, that this is the most safe he'll ever feel, in Hannibal's arms, admitting that all he wants is the beast inside him.

 

He kisses him again.


	6. en brochette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for taking so long to update. I am truly, truly sorry; but as someone may have noticed, I'm also writing another story and... well... it's taking up some time. Hopefully I'll be more diligent and bring both story at swift conclusions!
> 
> This chapter was highly anticipated by Livy: I hope it'll satisfy your expectations.
> 
> For the records: Hannibal [is playing this piece by Nikolai Myaskovsky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80vhCVK-tho).
> 
> Leave comments if you enjoy this work and you'll have my love forever.

Will knows he woke up too early the second he opens his eyes, and the room is still immersed in the blueish light of dawn: the dogs are asleep in front of the cold fireplace, and a persistent chill is creeping up on him, even though he's buried under the heavy covers.

 

Usually, he doesn't work on Wednesdays, and, unless he's staying over at Hannibal's, uses the free day to get some much needed extra sleep, catch up on the papers he still has to grade, plan future lessons, indulge his dogs with long walks and repair what needs to be repaired around the house. 

 

But mostly, he likes to allow himself to be lazy, to take it easy and enjoy himself as much as his lonely life allows.

 

The clock on his bedside signals it's barely five past six, and he groans loudly in displeasure, because he knows he won't be able to go back to sleep even if he tried: he feels calm though, no nightmares creeping in the back of his mind, just a lingering uneasiness he can't explain. 

 

For a long time, he stays in bed, indulging the warmth all around him, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of his pillow; there is so much silence. 

 

His house is so far away from the rest of world he can't even hear cars running through the streets; only the trees moaning and whispering, the breathing of his pack and the rain hitting his roof.

 

It's all very ethereal; from the spectral light filtering through his shutters, to the noises his house makes. It reminds him of the ghost stories he used to read as a child.

 

Will considers grabbing the phone and call Hannibal, to see if he's already awake, and somehow fill the silence he's drowning in with his voice, but he has no idea what he could say to him.

 

He misses him, just like he misses Abigail, no matter that she has been gone for less than a week, and he's still clinging to the remains of her presence around him; the feeling of their absence is so strong when he's alone in Wolf Trap, because they carved themselves a space inside him, and it resonates with emptiness when they're gone.

 

He sighs wistfully, holds on to his pillow and closes his eyes for a while; he imagines Hannibal there with him: his hands on his body, lips kissing his neck, fingers caressing his back, keeping him close. Smiling dangerously, like when he's about to sink his teeth in his exposed skin.

 

It's a good thought; it manages to chase away some of the uneasiness that was hovering over him.

 

It's around seven and half when he finally decides to get up, stumbling towards the bathroom to relieve himself and shower. It's not snowing yet, but the morning is so cold he shivers violently, hurrying up to put on warm clothes as soon as he's dry.

 

His dogs pool around him when he goes back into the living room, still groggy and half asleep, but happy to see him, and he basks in their simple love, hugging them all and enjoying their cuddles.

 

Will drinks his coffee on the porch, with a blanket on his legs, watching his pack run on the wet fields, smiling at the sight.

 

A thought hits him suddenly while he observes the familiar and reassuring scene in front of him.

 

Almost a year ago, he was losing his mind; his brain on fire, the world crumbling all around him, and the discovery of who Hannibal really was, destroying the foundations of his residual stability, of the trust he had put in him. Now he's drinking hot coffee he made using the french press Hannibal gave him for his thirty fifth birthday, thinking about him and about his plans for the day. The world is grounded all around him.

 

He remembers their dinner that night: the almost completely genuine grin on Hannibal's face, his own cheeks heated by the wine, how happy he had felt just because of that gift.

 

Because it was a good moment, one where he could pretend not to know anything, where he could not ask himself who had been their dinner; and he could concentrate only on Hannibal, on his kisses on his neck, his hands running on his body, the burning of the kisses on his skin.

 

His life was about to shatter, and then it suddenly put itself back together instead. And now he's living a quiet existence with a terrible monster in his bed, wrapping his arms around him and making him feel safe, even with a knife to his throat.

 

But he still refuses to forget the hallucinations, the nightmares, how raw and cruel it felt not to know what was real and what wasn't: he cannot let it go. 

 

And he'll probably never completely forgive Hannibal for that, for allowing it to happen. They both know it, and maybe that's why they make it work: because they don't pretend with each other.

 

Will grades a few papers while eating his breakfast, giving bites of crepes to his dogs from time to time, drinking a lot of coffee and relaxing in front of the space heater. When he's satisfied with his work, he checks out the recipes he bookmarked on the ledger and decides to go shopping, so he can try something new. 

 

The morning is clear now that the rain has stopped: a cold sun shining all around him and even the air gets warmer. Good days are so precious during this time of the year, and he doesn't want to waste them by staying inside. And running errands always helps him clear his mind.

 

While he's driving, Will remembers his old days, when he didn't care enough about the food he ate to go look for the best ingredients, or even just decent ones, if he has to be fair, but merely took a run to the nearest mall to stock up on dogs food, precooked meals, cookies, milk and other necessities.

 

He never worried too much about it before; with all that was going on in his life, paired with how he had been raised and his constant worrying about his finances even though he had no reason to: his physical health and eating well were never one of his biggest concerns.

 

Now it's so different: he drives all the way to Fairfax, looks up online the best shops and dedicates sometimes hours to the task. It gives him a sense of pride that shouldn't come with spending so much money.

 

He wonders how it is for Hannibal; if for him, all his years in poverty shaped his craving for abundance and display of it, like they did with him in the opposite sense, making him almost pathologically minimalist to the point of self neglect. Will asks himself if he's trying to compensate now, for what he lost all those years ago or never had in the first place, for the deprivation he survived, and the hunger that he never got to feed during his youth.

 

It's something he can relate to in such a deep way now, something he can really understand: when Hannibal cooks too much even if it's just the two of them, now Will doesn't see just his desire to show off, but his almost unconscious need to give in to wild pleasures and fine things as much as he can, fearing they could be taken away at any time.

 

The thought stays with him all morning: while he walks through the aisles, chooses meat, vegetables and fruit; it makes Will feel connected to Hannibal, like they're sharing the space he's occupying, as well as his thoughts.

 

It's a comforting feeling. And Will basks into it.

 

\-----

 

Hannibal is on his porch, waiting for him, when he comes home; his dogs are out of the house as well, and a couple of them run towards him to welcomes him home, while Will stares at the man and cannot hold back his surprise.

 

He looks so harmless, with the afternoon light shining on his face, softening his features and giving him a warm look: he's wearing casual clothes, and his hair free from brilliantine, falling on his eyes: he looks at him with a blank, but calm expression.

 

Will smiles at him, but it's not returned. Hannibal's eyes pierce through him, and he can feel their fire clawing at his skin.

 

“This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

 

“Does it displease you to see me here?”

 

Will shrugs and gets closer while Hannibal joins him, the dogs rubbing against both their legs in an attempt to get their attention. Will silences them and tells them to go to play.

 

“Of course not, it was just very sudden, that's all. You never come here unannounced.”

 

“I did try to call, but nobody answered. Anyway: one of my patients abruptly canceled their appointment. So I decided to pay you a visit.”

 

He doesn't mention that he does own a cellphone, and Hannibal could've called him there, or that he's very well aware of his aversion for his Wolf Trap's house, that he doesn't come here unless he's been invited; or that this sudden visit only fuels his suspects. 

 

He decides that he doesn't even want to focus on it: because something in the way Hannibal is looking at him has a tenderness in it that brings another smile to his face, and would do even if this was all just a perfectly crafted manipulation on his part. He looks good and relaxed, and it beat all the rest.

 

“Good, I'm glad you did. I went grocery shopping...”

 

“Then allow me to help unload your car.”

 

They don't greet each other like normal couples would: no kisses or quick touches; Will is not even sure the word couple fits them, because it feels ugly and wrong in his mind when referred to them. 

 

But, as he watches Hannibal surrounded by his enthusiast pack, on his propriety, he realizes how much he yearned to see that, to have the feeling that he belongs in his life, even in the parts of it he keeps away from him.

 

Will observes Hannibal moving around in his kitchen, examining drawers, his fridge and cabinets, nodding in approval at his new organization. He almost wants to say something sarcastic, but bites it back, because he looks too endearing to ruin the mood like that. He asks him about his day instead, and they occupy the silence with inane small talks for a while.

 

“Do you mind if I go take a shower? It was a long day.”

 

“It's your home, Will, you can do whatever you want. I am sure I can manage here on my own.”

 

The hot water is a blessing on his still cold skin, chases away the fatigue he accumulated during his errands, massages his muscles until he's relaxed and can think clearly about the presence in the other room.

 

He knows Hannibal is here for a reason, because he leaves nothing to chance and always has a very specific plan in mind when he does something so unexpected and out of character: now he wants to appeal to Will, give him a positive impression of him; dressing down, indulging his dogs, helping him in the kitchen... it's very specific. 

 

It reminds Will of the fantasies of a family he had while Abigail was staying with him.

 

But he never mentioned them to Hannibal, so it must be something else, something that eludes him still. 

 

He can't help suspecting, asking himself if the man is trying to throw Will a bone, because he has something to hide. His mind goes to new bodies, new artistically exposed victims weighting on his shoulders.

 

Will takes a deep breath, and then goes back to him, knowing there's no way he'll figure out what Hannibal is hiding until he'll be ready to tell him. He just has to try not to think about the worst scenarios and enjoy his presence there.

 

“You have a new dog.”

 

Hannibal is sitting at his table, his eyes shining, finally a smile on his face; his eyes scanner Will's appearance, but he makes no comments at how disheveled he look. There's a fire going on, and the room is pleasantly warm.

 

“Yeah, Agent Cooper. Abigail picked the name.”

 

The animal accepts Hannibal's caresses surprisingly quickly, way more trusting than he had been with him at the beginning. 

 

“You do realize your hoarding of dogs is starting to become alarming, I hope.”

 

Will kneels on the floor: his pack surrounds him, and he dedicates a moment to each one of them, under the unyielding scrutiny of Hannibal's eyes. It's so familiar and domestic: so reassuring he can almost forget his earlier dark thoughts, and cling to that image, imprinting it in his mind and refusing to let it go.

 

“No one else would take them. They'd be condemned to a brief, sad and miserable life. They'd die on the streets or in some shelter. I can't leave them.”

 

“You see yourself in them. And, perhaps, you see me as well. Am I one of your strays?”

 

He gets up and approaches him, runs his hand through his hair, and then kisses him, feeling Hannibal's arms surround him and pulling him close; he deepens the kiss until Will moans and rubs languidly against him, looking for more contact.

 

“You're not a stray dog. You're... a lion, one of those that lives among humans, but never quite loses its wilderness, that remains dangerous despite having being domesticated. I can pretend you've been tamed, but I still know you could rip my throat any second. So I have to be careful with you.”

 

Hannibal holds his hand, trapping it between his fingers, his head slightly inclined to the side; he's considering him very attentively, exactly like a predator would, and Will knows that his smile is the facade he puts up when he's taken by surprise by his words. 

 

But, at the same time, he's filled with pride because of how sharp and insightful he can be.

 

“An interesting simile; seeing myself through your eyes is always a voyage through infinite wonders and unexplored lands only you seem to find.”

 

"Flattery will get you nowhere, you know that."

 

Hannibal relaxes now, but not completely, never completely lately; some stiffness remains in his gaze, in the posture of his limbs. Will wants to know why so much he has to bite his lips and take a deep breath not to speak.

 

"Seems to have got me far enough."

 

Will doesn't reply; he simply disentangles himself from him, and kisses him again, only once, before going into the kitchen. He knows Hannibal is right behind him, and it makes him grin.

 

“Do you want something to eat? I have some crepes I made this morning in the fridge; we could have them with some tea...”

 

He's not surprised when Hannibal, instead of answering, pins him against the counter and starts kissing his neck, caressing him everywhere he can reach, efficiently ending the conversation. 

 

It feels like he's starving for him and can't help himself; his kisses and bites make him shiver from head to toe, with little pleased sounds escaping his lips. Will turns around and grabs him, licking his lips and sliding his hands under his sweater, smiling and grinning when the man positively groans at him, before kissing him hard again.

 

Will, suddenly, feels the burning need to stop him and ask him if he came here just for sex; but he can't bring himself to right now, because he missed Hannibal, actually he missed him while he was not there, and now he needs him right there against him, rubbing their bodies together.

 

The hungry, desperate desire he feels in the pit of his stomach consumes him from the inside, and makes him yearn for every touch and every kiss. He wants Hannibal to burn with him, to feel the same for him, so they can consume each other until nothing will remain of them except their mixed ashes.

 

Hannibal bites his lips, cups his ass through his jeans; they both taste blood, but neither of them really care. 

 

Then, while Will is distracted by the sudden shot of pleasure that runs through his body, with his eyes closed and a loud moan escaping his lips, the man grabs his neck: big strong hands push him against the cabinets behind him, pressing down on his windpipe hard enough to make him struggle to breathe.

 

The man kisses him again while they're like this, so close together Will can hear their heartbeats melting together, as he gets light headed because of the lack of oxygen.

 

Hannibal's eyes are so big, almost completely blown black: like they're endless and Will is falling down into them with no hope of coming out alive. 

 

He looks frightening, absolutely terrifying, and his grip is so hard he thinks, for one moment, that this is it, this is how he'll die: Will doesn't try to push him away, just like he didn't when Hannibal had a knife to his throat. 

 

Will closes his eyes and relaxes, lets his body go soft against the cabinets and Hannibal's body, putting his life in his hands.

 

He's like a god of death, who came down on Earth to reclaim what's his, to choke the life out of him: and Will would get on his knees and worships him as he's killed.

 

When Hannibal lets him go, Will smiles through the deep breathes he's taking, staring at him through his long lashes, and impossibly hard in his worn out jeans; there's so much truth is his eyes and on his face, so much raw honesty: it makes him laugh in pleasure and reverence.

 

In this moment, Hannibal is both human and feral: like an animal, unable to hide his desires; and he drinks into the sight, wants to bite that sincerity out of him, sink his teeth into it, chew it and gulp it down together with his flesh and his blood.

 

The man frowns at his smile, at how pleased he looks, but it's short lived, because Will is kissing him again, nails scratching his neck, before he slowly sinks to his knees, trapped between the counter and Hannibal's legs.

 

He's still only half hard when he takes him out; Will pumps his cock for a minute before putting it in his mouth, closing his eyes and humming around the tip, then licking it whole, running his tongue along his skin. Hannibal doesn't move, but Will knows he's pleased when he runs a hand through his curls, gently, lovingly.

 

Violence and pain mixed with care and pleasure.

 

Will takes him in as much as he can, looking up when he hears a moan escape his lips: he's heavy in his mouth, the tip rubbing against the back of his throat; and Hannibal's hands encouraging him to take more and more, until he's nuzzling into his pubes, breathing hard through his nose.

 

His eyes water when Hannibal starts fucking his mouth, slowly pulling him back and forth, giving him a few seconds to breathe before slamming back in. 

 

Sex is not just about pleasure for them; it's not about power or pain either, despite everything: it's about discovery.

 

Slipping through the cracks and hidden corners of each other, finding unexplored feelings and nerves; they have a connection they never had with anyone before: they're both pioneers of one another skins and bodies. 

 

They see each other like through a glass, they kiss like it's the first time for both of them; they fuck like there's never going to be with anyone else but the other for the rest of their lives. It's intoxicating and maddening; it chains Will to him like it never happened before with his previous lovers.

 

And now he's consuming him, holding him in his mouth; Hannibal's secret source of power and manipulation; it's erotic in the most fucked up way, and they both feel that electricity run through their bodies.

 

Will wants to feel that forever, die with that feeling tattooed on his skin.

 

He coughs and sputters when Hannibal releases the grip on his hair, tears clouding his eyes.

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

Hannibal's voice is completely atonal and unemotional; there's a curious and pleased look in his eyes. They both know he doesn't care about that at all. They know they both wanted it.

 

Will laughs, even through his sore throat; in response, he rubs his cheek against his hipbone, kissing and lapping at it.

 

"Do you really care?"

 

"Do you doubt it?"

 

He snorts and gets up, kissing him.

 

“Shut up, take me to bed and fuck me.”

 

Hannibal proceeds to do just that, ripping his clothes off of him, leaving a trail behind them that his dogs stare at curiously (but that they don't follow, maybe held back by the sex saturated and toxic atmosphere between them); then he spreads him on the bed, on his back, grabbing his legs and pulling them back until Will groans in discomfort. 

 

The man eats him out, and Will thinks he's going to start yelling because he goes excruciatingly slow, teasing him with his tongue and fingers, or keeping his hands pinned down so he can't pull at his hair.

 

He feels so exposed; stretched open like he's on display in the filthiest way imaginable, and Hannibal is enjoying every second of it: every single breath and moan and groan he can pull out of him.

 

His hamstrings scream in pain, his wrist must be red and almost bruised by now, but he makes no attempts to break free: Hannibal looks so good trapped between his legs, face squashed against him. It feels like he belongs there.

 

They both belong in the mess they have created.

 

When the man frees one of his hands, instead of pulling at his hair, Will gently caresses him, his cheek and his head: Hannibal looks up to him, at the tenderness he reads in his eyes, and something incredibly warm comes alight behind them. It makes his heart race, blood pumping in his ears.

 

Hannibal kisses his palm, each one of his fingers, basks into the feeling.

 

They both moan when Hannibal finally gets inside him; it hurts, there wasn't enough preparation, but Will doesn't care, and rubs his heel into the small of his back to signal him to just fuck him harder.

 

It occurs to Will, with astounding clarity, considering the situation, that they never had sex in this bed; he knows Hannibal hates his house, how far away it keep Will from him, outside his sphere of influence.

 

Maybe that's why the rare times the man stayed there, they just slept, almost without touching.

 

Seeing him like this, surrounded by his cheap sheets, on his little bed that groans menacingly under them because of the strain they're putting on it, it's almost as intense as the fucking. He looks completely different, transformed by the afternoon light that sips through the windows, by the harsh contrast between his elegance and the room around him.

 

Will stares for a long time, squinting to consume every look on his face, every shift of the light and how it reflects on his face. His body is burning and he just wants more, the pressure is not enough and it drives him mad; he sinks his nail into Hannibal's back and scratches deep enough to draw blood. The man snares at him like a wounded beast and bites his neck until it hurts.

 

He asks himself if Hannibal feels the same, if what's in his mind is his empathy picking up from both of them how intense this is, if this need to maul and devour is his or not.

 

He doesn't care; he just wants more of it.

 

Will lets his mouth wander between kisses and bites, when his lips are not occupied by sucking on Hannibal's fingers; he says things that sound like incomprehensible blabbers to him, but that make Hannibal pound him faster, bend him in half on the bed until he almost think he'll break.

 

"God yes, yes! Right there... harder... fuck me! Fuck me! Kill me, kill me like this... kill me and take my whole body..."

 

Abruptly, Hannibal stops.

 

Will's groan is almost feral, as is the way he scratches Hannibal's chest, before the man drops his head on his shoulder, sweaty forehead resting against his skin. He's breathing fast, and he's pressing inside him just right enough to drive him mad with pleasure, but without giving him release.

 

But Will is not sure he's completely aware of it, or of anything around him.

 

They're both so close, the very air around them is heavy and oppressive; it weights on them like a shroud.

 

When Hannibal looks up to him again, Will shivers both in fear and in excitement: his eyes are sharp as blades, his teeth are exposed and hungry, ready to strike. He has to moan out loud, touching himself as much as he can manage to do.

 

"Would you like to die like that, Will? Being killed while someone is inside you?" 

 

Will wishes Hannibal had a knife he could hold against his throat, cutting just enough to make him bleed: so he could lick it away and share it with him.

 

"You, not someone. I'd let you kill me while you're fucking me. I'm all yours, right? You could kill me and eat me raw and I'd let you, I would watch you do it. Maybe I would hand you the knife... Would you let me do the same to you? Would you give me your body to do what I want with it?"

 

Hannibal is very quiet for a long time; he starts moving again, but slowly, dragging every thrust, making him beg for them. He's there and not there at the same time; a vacant look in his eyes that makes him look inhumane and dangerous. He has to avert his gaze, because it's too much.

 

When Will opens his eyes again after another long pause, he notices he's staring at something on the side of the bed: a mug he left there that morning.

 

It's sudden and unexpected, when Hannibal knocks it on the floor; they both watch it fall, the whole movement agonizingly slow.

 

When it shatters in the floor, Will jerks away from it, makes a strangled and desperate sound echoed by the frightened yelping of his dogs and by a long moan from Hannibal.

 

He's not sure what he's witnessing, but it's so intimate and deep, Will feels like drowning in it, dragged down by an invisible force he doesn't understand. Hannibal presses down on him, his whole body keeping him pinned down; they kiss and it's almost painful, because there's too much going on inside both of them: their emotions are raw and painful to withstand.

 

Will's brain is overwhelmed by it, by the empathy making him feel all of Hannibal's feeling loud and clear, like someone is shouting them in his ears. He drinks in all of it: the helplessness, the cruelty; the darkness and the light.

 

He holds Hannibal close to his heart, while he starts fucking him hard again.

 

They come entangled together; the only sound around them their melted breaths.

 

\-----

 

“I managed not to ask this while were actually fucking, but now honestly, I can't help it: did you come here just to have sex?”

 

Despite his playful tone, Hannibal frown at him, looks down on their entangled hands, before letting his eyes go back to him; Will gets up on his side, fingers running on the man's chest, a warm smile on his face.

 

“It was not the original reason of my visit, no. But I would lie if I said I was displeased by that sudden turn of events.”

 

Will kisses his neck, licking away the last residues of sweat he finds there: Hannibal runs a hand through his hair, but he remains pensive and absent.

 

“It was good, really good.”

 

“I am glad I was up to the task.”

 

He can't help but snorting. 

 

“You know you always are...”

 

It feels like they can finally relax together, buried under the covers of his bed, wrapped together like any normal couple would: the dogs stare at the two of them curiously from where they're sitting on the floor. Winston adventures close to the bed, sniffs Hannibal's extended hand, then goes back to his spot.

 

It's good, comfortable; he almost dares to hope it could last forever.

 

Then suddenly, his eyes catch a glimpse of the shards of his mug, still abandoned on the floor. Hannibal is staring at them as well; Will feels him breathe in deeply.

 

“I hope you were not sentimentally attached to that mug.”

 

Will smiles softly.

 

“I wasn't, don't worry about it. I am far more interested in knowing what was going on there with you; we can avoid pretending you knocked it on the floor by accident, right?”

 

Hannibal looks back to him; he doesn't reply for a moment, but he doesn't break eye contact while he thinks. The gaze keeps Will pinned where he is.

 

“Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor. On purpose. Somehow, I am always filled with disappointment when it doesn't gather itself up again; that it remains in pieces where I let fall.”

 

Will thinks on his word for a moment, then nods and goes back to lie down next to him.

 

“Would you answer me if I asked you why?”

 

The brief pause that follows his question, makes his breathing falter.

 

“There are numerous theories that state that, as the universe contracts, it could be possible for time to reverse its course.”

 

“And you drop teacups to make sure it doesn't?”

 

Hannibal caresses his face with the tip of his fingers: they lie in front of one another, barely touching, but Will can feel his emotions like there's no space at all between them. The man slides inside of him, fills him with all his feelings; there's an infinite sadness, a morbid longing for something long gone. And an obsession that poisons all the rest.

 

“Or maybe you do it in hope that, one day, your teacup will come back together. That something you desperately want to reverse will change...”

 

“Perhaps both. Who wouldn't want to change the past after all? But... at the same time... who knows what could happen if it really did? Confronting our choices would be terrifying.”

 

Will doesn't say anything for a long time: he has so many questions, but is afraid to ask them. Because Hannibal is a dark and dangerous pit and he has no idea how to deal with what's lurking down there, inside his heart.

 

But also because that fucked up protection instinct he feels towards him, and that persuades him to leave him be and not to press the argument further: there's pain there, hidden inside Hannibal's secret crevices, and he's reluctant to dig in there when he's not ready.

 

Will has changed so much during the last year: he knows his own cruelty and darkness, what he's capable of doing if pushed far enough; he can be destructive and merciless just as much as Hannibal.

 

And God knows the man deserves to be hurt by him: and yet he doesn't want to do that. Instead he wraps his arms around him to keep him safe. He cares too much, loves too much; and it weights on his heart, cleaning it of all the rage, hurt and betrayal he used to feel.

 

“Will you tell me one day? What you wish you could reverse?”

 

Hannibal kisses him, holding him close; he needs that contact, Will realizes: the closeness between them is like a balm on his wounds. He has no idea what he's soothing inside him, what is it that hurts so much the man can't even speak about it.

 

This vulnerability, this softness inside him clashes so powerfully with his lack of remorse, with his cruelty and his disregards for the lives of those he considers unworthy; he struggles to understand how they can survive in the same person.

 

Hannibal compartmentalizes everything: his whole life is made of layers and layers of denial and unsolved issues, of desire for destruction and need to shape and create. Maybe it's that contradiction that allows them to fit so well together.

 

When they part, Will know he won't have an answer now, but accepts it, for the time being at least. He can't do anything else after all.

 

“Do you mind if I use your shower?”

 

“Of course not, go ahead.”

 

Will stays in bed for a while more after the man in gone, staring at the ceiling and thinking: he still feels his skin prickly with the intensity of what they shared, and it all bottles inside of him, filling him to the brim. He doesn't know what to make of all that happened, how to make it fit with the rest of the image of Hannibal he has in his mind.

 

What he knows is that he's there for a reason: in his little house and looking more domestic than Will has ever seen him, trying so very hard to impress him. 

 

He sighs, rubbing his eyes, feeling his muscles protest when he gets up and puts fresh clothes on.

 

His neck and chest are covered in marks; Will touches them, admires them in the mirror, presses on them to feel how they hurt. He smiles at his own reflection, enjoying how they look on his skin, like a perverse decoration he's proud of.

 

After cleaning up the floor from the shreds of the broken mug, he dedicates a few minutes to the dogs, and allows them to follow him into the kitchen, where he reheats the crepes (in the microwaves, and he's silently thankful Hannibal can't see him and criticize him for it) and puts on a kettle.

 

The animals are still a little on edge, and they rub against his legs and Will showers them with attentions and little food treats until the finally settle down in a warm and welcoming pile on the floor. They're so sensitive and clever, aware of every change in his mood; and Hannibal's presence is so overwhelming they feel obliged to intrude into it.

 

By the time Hannibal reappears, wearing a soft, red sweater, a pain of old slacks and walking barefoot, Will has the tea and the crepes ready. They settle down on the table without saying a word, but the man kisses him once before they do, inhaling his scent and kissing his temple.

 

He smells like Will's cheap soap, like Will's house: it goes to his head and confuses him.

 

Hannibal sips the tea, but doesn't eat for a long while, regarding the food with a curious and attentive look that makes him nervous.

 

“Scared to try something I've prepared?”

 

“Don't be foolish; of course not. I was just... savoring the moment. You have made so many progresses in so little time; I want to appreciate them fully.”

 

Will observes Hannibal eat a whole crepe slowly, licking his lips from the residues of chocolate cream and powdered sugar, chewing attentively, so to give each bite the attention it deserves.

 

He's flattered, of course: and he's fascinating in all he does; but at the same time, they have such a complex and visceral relationship with food, it's hard to separate that history from the moment. Will holds his breath when Hannibal is done, waiting for the verdict.

 

“As usual, you have exceeded my expectations: it's all very good; taste, consistency, good ingredients for the filling. I am surprised and positively amazed. You have mastered the dish incredibly well. But perhaps next time avoid the microwave to reheat them.”

 

Will laughs, and Hannibal smiles back, so warmly and humanly it almost manages to cover the nervous and awkward feelings coming from him. 

 

Will wants to ignore them, needs to, even; so he relax and watches him eat more, beaming up at ever compliments he receives, noting his suggestions and advices. He shows the man his own ledger, and his approving smile is capable of filling him with such a glowing pride he wants to bask in that light forever.

 

The man is busy reading and finishing his tea for a while, giving him free reign to observe him: they're facing each other, close enough to touch, and Hannibal is immersed in his world.

 

The dogs sniff him from time to time, trying to get his attention; he tends to them, he relaxes in his small and sparse kitchen: he wants to belong, but at the same time, he's far away.

 

“I know this will sound extremely cliché from me, but I'd like to know what you're thinking about. I wish your brain was made of crystal, so I could read into it...” 

 

Hannibal smiles, hiding his teeth.

 

“My mind always follows several train of thoughts, it never rest on a single subject or idea. And one of these trains, is always for my own amusement. It keeps me sharp, entertained and attentive.”

 

“And what are you thinking about for your own amusement?”

 

He's quiet for a second.

 

“Have you ever been to Italy, Will?”

 

“I've been to Mexico, to Canada... but no, obviously I've never been to Italy. Why? Would you take me there? Be my tour guide?”

 

Hannibal catches his eyes, the ironic look inside them, but his face remains carved in stone; it doesn't make Will stop smiling.

 

“Of course I would, if you allowed me to. I'd show you the most famous cities eventually, surely: Rome, Venice, Florence... but first, perhaps I'd take you to admire its less known jewels: the mosaics of Ravenna, Napoli with its hundreds of churches and underground tunnels; Palermo, the Greek temples of Agrigento. I would like to show you so much, Will...”

 

His eyes and shining in the dim light of the room, like he's truly imagining them there together, savoring his fantasies like memories; the look on his faces, makes Will want to do anything for him, give him all he wants and longs for. Fix the gaps in his soul with his presence, become all the man needs and wants from life.

 

“Would you say yes, if I asked you if you wanted to go?”

 

“Yeah, I probably would. It sounds... magical. Almost too good to be true. Just like us. Yes, we are a mess: but what we have it's real. And for our minds, knowing for sure that something is real, clinging to it desperately... it's everything.”

 

Hannibal nods, and Will feels compelled to change the subject, because it's too much and they're still too raw to get into that now. This is the real truth of them: they can't leave, they can't let each other go because they have nothing else that feels as solid and worth it than what they share.

 

He takes a deep breath and caresses Winston when he approaches.

 

“I bet you traveled a lot when you were younger.”

 

“I did, I was very lucky to. I saw so much, it was a privilege.”

 

“Did you... ever go back to Lithuania?”

 

Hannibal inhales deeply; Will isn't sure what will follow that pause will be true or not, but waits for it anyway.

 

“Yes, twice. But it was to resolve unfinished bureaucratic business, I had little time to visit the country.”

 

Will smiles ironically, but the man doesn't seem to notice.

 

“How did it feel like, going back there?”

 

“Sad, in a sense. It didn't feel like home anymore, but maybe it had never really been that for me. I was strangely indifferent to all of it; it felt like stepping through a gas station: refueling, taking care of minor business, and then moving on to something bigger and better.”

 

Will can tell he's lying, or that, at least, there's a lot more to it: it's the look in his eyes, the way the words seem to have no meaning, other than being an articulated smoke curtain to confuse him; that confirms it to him. He's so tempted to press forward, and he doesn't only because he can tell he'll get nothing out of him.

 

Hannibal is clamped, locked far away from him: and it's almost painful, to be rejected like that; but even more painful would be to be fed more half truths. So he stops.

 

“Have you ever seen your orphanage again since you left it?”

 

“It was demolished in 1985; too unsafe and unsavory even for Soviet standard, it appears.”

 

Hannibal kisses his hand, maybe to distract him, maybe simply to occupy his own mind with something solid, instead of wandering inside his turbid memories; Will can understand, because he feels the same when he thinks about his old life in Louisiana.

 

They're both strangers in the worlds they inhabit.

 

They both left behind so much, lost any contact with their roots and their pasts, so much that it feels like they're floating, with nowhere safe to land; maybe that's why they understand each other so well, because they understand how terrible loneliness is.

 

“It's disappointing.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

Will's smile is almost devious, it reflected in the maroon of Hannibal's eyes in a sinister way. It crushes the sadness that was slithering between them, replaces it with the taste of blood that's so familiar in their mouths; it makes them both feel safe.

 

Facing their pasts, the demons they never defeated, it's too much: but this... this they can handle.

 

“Because the first place you spilled blood in doesn't exist anymore. And it makes me sad I'll never get to see it, walks through those rooms like you did, feel what you felt there; and I would've liked it very much, to go there with you.”

 

Hannibal kisses him hard, pleased beyond measure by his words, by the fascination with the death he brings with him; they both love how blood tastes in their mouths. 

 

And Will reciprocates with equal force, laughing against his lips when they part.

 

“You are really something, Will Graham.”

 

Will doesn't reply: he reaches out, instead, and pulls Hannibal's hair until the man closes his eyes and sighs.

 

They kiss again.

 

\-----

 

They walk the dogs together before dinner, and Will has the chance to admire Hannibal making his way through the half frozen fields around his house, the dying sunlight reflecting in his eyes and on his face: he looks so earthly, so human and vulnerable it almost erases every shade of darkness from him.

 

Will stares at him for so long that even the man notices, though he merely smiles, without making any comments about it.

 

Forgetting Hannibal is a man, flesh and blood and emotions, it's so easy sometimes: if he was really a monster, something other than human, impossible to understand, it would make everything he had done more acceptable: but seeing him like this, with his dogs running next to him, wrapped in the silent peace of Wolf Trap... it's so hard to imagine him ripping lungs out of a man while he's still breathing, or cutting open another and watch him slowly bleed out.

 

Will knows how normal evil can be; the man next door, the woman you share good morning greetings with: it's everywhere, in everyone, like a cancer impossible to rip out cleanly.

 

But Hannibal is something else: he has nothing of that mundane banality; whatever he is, there's no real explanation for him. And it's so difficult to understand him, to make all the pieces that make him who he is fit together, despite all their contradictions. 

 

Will sighs, caressing Winston as the dog rubs against his leg to attract his attention: he knows he has to make the most of every good moment he manages to spend with him, drinks in this side if him, the brightness and the warmth of it.

 

They look at each other for a long moment, Hannibal's face an imperturbable, blank mask; then Will smiles and tells him to go back so they can have dinner.

 

It's Hannibal who cooks, with him hanging over his shoulder; he tries to carp all his secrets, to follows his movements with his newly acquired knowledge: he's so much better than he is, faster and more confident; with a peculiar originality Will could never hope to match.

 

Will makes a mental list of trick and things to remember, listens to every explanation the man provides him with; he's a good teacher, and his words are hypnotizing, like he's a wizard with the ability of charming him and make him do everything he wants or needs.

 

The man even manages to put together a beautiful presentation despite the lack of ornaments in his house; he finds some old scented candles he completely forgot he had, and they eat in their light, the atmosphere almost impossibly romantic for the two of them, but that makes him smile nevertheless. 

 

“It's weird to have someone else prepare food for me in my own house after so long... even before, when I didn't cook... well, it's not like I had all these visitors, and certainly not visitors who took time to make me food.”

 

“A pity. I should come more often then.”

 

Will laughs at that, but Hannibal looks positively confused by his reaction.

 

“I know you hate it here, you don't have to pretend.”

 

The man cleans his lips, so he can look away from him for a moment.

 

“I am not fond of this place, I will be honest, but I do not hate it. I simply prefer to see you at my house.”

 

“So you can influence me more? Because, when I'm in your reign, I truly belong to you?”

 

They regard each other for a long time, their eyes pouring into the other's; Will can feel the weight of his gaze clawing at his skin, setting fire to every layer of it. He licks his lips and massages Hannibal's knee under the table.

 

“Yes. I enjoy our time together a lot more in settings I can control, where you're surrounded by me, by what belongs to me, and nothing else.”

 

Will takes a deep breath when the man grabs his hand and holds it tight enough it almost hurts; he smiles, they both do: it's so easy to be honest with each other about how deeply they want to manipulate the other, about the changes and twists they want to operate.

 

A question hangs on his lips, as he watches Hannibal sit there, so immersed in his world his head spins; because despite the almost overwhelming peace he feels, his mind throws unsettling thoughts at him.

 

“Where do you see us in... five years? Or ten? Do you ever think about that?”

 

Hannibal chews his food attentively, putting down the silverware and the turning to face him; his eyes are slightly narrowed and Will feels his skin being peeled off by his gaze.

 

“Have you been thinking about our future?”

 

He smiles, but sadly.

 

“Sometimes I'm not sure we deserve to have a future... especially together.”

 

Hannibal nods, but he doesn't say anything: he's thinking about his question, and Will waits patiently.

 

Their hands touch again, and Will sighs, drinking some wine to wash down the lump of tension in his throat. Hannibal caresses his cheek and his hand is pleasantly fresh against his heated skin. He closes his eyes and waits.

 

“I picture us exactly as we are now: sitting in front of each other, talking.”

 

Will considers it in silence, tries to picture that in his mind: it comes easily, because that is the most natural setting for them; but it takes many different turns and shades... they could be at peace with each other, growing old together. But tragedy is always behind the corner.

 

“You could be behind bars.”

 

“Yes, it's a possibility.”

 

"Aren't you afraid I could still turn you in? Even if you stopped killing, I could still ruin you with one phone call; I could be free of you. Do you ever worry about that?"

 

Hannibal regards him with inquiring and curious eyes, like he's dissecting the thought and Will at the same time.

 

Deep in his heart, he knows he'd never turn him in: not now, not after all they went through together. Maybe that was Hannibal's design all along, to chain him so deeply he'd be unable to consider his life without him; or maybe he liked the idea of Will being his possible downfall, to have that threat always hanging on his head like a sword ready to fall.

 

"I doubt a prison cell would be enough to cut off all the threads that run between us; even there, I'd still have you. We'll never be free of each other."

 

The truth sips inside of him like a venom, corroding his skin and his organs; Will closes his eyes and nods, because he knows it's true and he accepted it a long time ago.

 

"I don't know exactly what I'm doing with you; and it's numbing... it's terrifying."

 

The man smiles and takes his hand again.

 

"We have time to find out."

 

Hannibal feeds him the rest of what's in his plate with his fingers, Will's tongue lapping at them, biting softly from time to time. Destruction can be incredibly intimate and erotic between them; a monster they feed with parts of their own bodies, of their hearts and souls.

 

They're linked so deeply they both know they'll never be truly free of each other, just like Hannibal said; Will supposes it's good they have no intention of trying to run away.

 

\-----

 

When he comes back after doing the dishes, Hannibal is standing in front of the piano in his living room. He's frowning lightly, going through the music sheets he keeps on it; his dogs are lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, looking up to him like he's an oddity they're extremely interested into.

 

“Is this tuned?”

 

“Yeah, I had it fixed a while ago. Abigail likes to play sometimes when she's here.”

 

The man nods and then sits on the bench, uncovering the yellowed keys, running his fingers over their smooth surface before producing a few notes, a satisfied smile appearing on his lips. After a moment, Will joins him; it's cramped, and a little uncomfortable and unsteady, but neither of them minds.

 

“Do you play? I never asked.”

 

Will sighs, his hands caressing the wood of the instrument with care.

 

“Sometimes at my church, they had free piano classes, and I took a few, mostly to have something to do on school breaks; but I never seriously practiced it. And I haven't played in years, I think... I wasn't very good to begin with.”

 

It's still such a vivid memory for him: sitting in the pleasantly cool and half dark church to escape the scorching summer's heat, the music filling the very air around him, transporting him to another world for a few hours; he can still see the dark, familiar hands of his teacher, her kind words, her directions and advices resonating in his mind. Telling him he was doing well or to fix that passage.

 

Will smiles to himself, and Hannibal is looking at him with curious warmth in his eyes, smiling back at him.

 

"Those are memories you're fond of, it rarely happens with something that relates to your childhood."

 

"I liked to learn, I loved the music; it was very calming for me. The repetitive movements, the clear sounds... I could listen to people play for hours. I would've loved to study more, but we were too poor for that. We couldn't really afford to waste money piano lessons..."

 

Hannibal nods, but he looks severely displeased by that, offended on his behalf because he had been forced to abandon his passion.

 

“Show me, let me judge if you were any good or not.”

 

He had intended to debate it longer, to refuse and bargain a way out of it; instead he puts both his hands on the keyboard and closes his eyes, bringing back to his mind the first bars of “Fur Elise”. It was his favorite piece, the one he practiced the most; his teacher clapped her hands and smiled widely and gently when he managed to play it without errors, giving him a nickel buy some candies after the lesson was over.

 

She was not much richer than him, but everybody in town knew about his family's situation. And they all took pity on him. It was humiliating to receive that kind of charity from others; but not from Mrs Spencer: she was kind to him because she liked him, not because he had a deadbeat dad and lived in a cheap, rented apartment.

 

It was acceptable; it made Will feel cared for, somehow.

 

His fingers still retain the muscle memory of all those hours of practice, even though they move awkwardly.

 

His performance is very short, because he remembers too little of the score, and because a sudden embarrassment creeps in right away when he makes a mistake, killing his excitement and confidence.

 

But Hannibal's smile is much wider when he looks at him, like he's genuinely pleased. Will flushes and looks away, still too raw to handle it.

 

“Your technique is simply atrocious, but you have an excellent memory, sense of rhythm and musicality, and those are rare qualities, believe me. With some practice, even now you could be able to play decently well.”

 

Will laughs and shakes his head, but his words do hit the spot inside him, making him feel that same pride he longs to earn when he cooks.

 

“You're such a kissup. I can't believe you; what of your hate for ugliness and bad music? Am I forgiven of this attempted murder against Beethoven only because you like me?”

 

“I have come across my fair share of terrible musicians, some highly rewarded for their revolting performances. I don't expect an amateur like you to play like Mozart; you did well enough.”

 

He simply nods, because he doesn't want to spoil the atmosphere: he feels so good, warm and almost giddy, despite the embarrassment that still creeps in on him. He caresses Hannibal's hand, his long, lean fingers, and the veins on the back of it.

 

He wants so much from him; and for this moment to last forever.

 

"How did you start to play?"

 

"I took my first classes before my parents died, but my true training only began in Paris."

 

Will smiles to himself, looking down on the keyboard.

 

"Sometimes it feels like your whole life began in Paris... and yet I know so little about your time there."

 

Hannibal is silent for a moment, his hands resting on his lap and his mind wandering through the memories of his past.

 

"Perhaps a part of it did start there. One day, I will take you there and tell you everything you want to know."

 

He smiles and takes a deep breath.

 

“Play something for me, please?”

 

“Happy or sad?”

 

“Can I have both?”

 

The man smiles at him; and then it starts playing.

 

It's a longer and more articulate piece than the one Will attempted, something with a longing sound to it; quiet and sad in places, hopeful and joyful in others. His fingers move expertly, and Will is entranced by every movement, by every note. They all resonate inside him, they fill him, and take him out of himself; his mind is light and blissfully empty while Hannibal plays.

 

Will thinks about the man practicing alone in his house for hours at day, composing new works; it's a peaceful image, something that brings out the humanity in him more and more, and that makes him drift away.

 

He closes his eyes and barely resists the temptation to put his head on Hannibal's shoulder; but the feeling is so strong and clear, the intimacy that the music is creating is overwhelming and they both sink into it.

 

The man played for him many times, but never like this: not in his house, with his dogs staring attentively, with the suggestive light of the candles and of the fireplace giving it a golden aura that bright up even the darkest corners of their hearts.

 

His hands can kill, and yet they can create such a stunning and terrible beauty. They're stained with blood and a gift at the same time.

 

Will inhales deeply when Hannibal finishes playing, the last notes and echoes hanging in the air around them; his fingers rest on the keys for a moment longer, before he turns around to face him. He's still concentrated, but doesn't look as far away as he had been lately; he's solid and present now.

 

"That was... so beautiful, really. It's astounding what you can do even on this little piano. The music was incredible. Should I clap or it's bad taste to?"

 

Hannibal makes a face, but slightly bows his head to him in gratitude for his words.

 

"That's not necessary, but I am glad you enjoyed the performance."

 

They're sitting so close together, and even though they're not touching, except for their thighs, but there's no distance between them. 

 

Will can feel the heat that radiates from his body, how quiet the atmosphere around them is. He can breathe easily, and smiling almost comes natural even on his face.

 

The realization hits him while he watches Hannibal play “Fur Elise” for him to show him the correct technique in slow, enrapturing movements that Will follows with a smile on his face: it's such a heavy blow it makes his breath falter for a second, and he gasps suddenly; thankfully the sound is drowned by the music and the man doesn't seem aware of it.

 

It was so simple, so easy; and he failed to see it for so long...

 

Hannibal manipulates him constantly; it's incredibly subtle, like a stream that runs underneath the ground, and that creeps out only from time to time. 

 

And now... now it's in his sudden appearance there at his house, in the sex, in the food cooked in his little kitchen; in how he treated his dogs, in the piece played for him: in how everything Hannibal did tonight seemed to whisper to him, to try to break down his walls and slide behind them, reaching out to touch his deepest desires.

 

Understanding what all this means, makes Will smile so hard his cheeks start hurting, because after so much pain, rage, sense of utter and complete betrayal, and so much hate he felt like drowning into it, this is sweet in his mouth; it's like a beautiful melody that surrounds both of them and binds them together.

 

Hannibal stops playing when he notices Will is distracted; he's confused by the look on his face, but Will shakes his head and laughs under his breath.

 

“Are you trying to fit into the 'normal' part of my life, because you're afraid I'll stop finding you interesting if you're not killing anymore? So you're... manipulating me, but not into joining you in your life, but... to allow you to creep into mine? In the part you usually don't care for?”

 

Hannibal doesn't react right away, it's a very slow process; he stares at Will for a long time. 

 

His eyes are burning and his mouth is closed tight together in a stern expression. He doesn't falter, not even when he closes his eyes and breathes deeply; like he's trying to keep himself together, flexing his fingers like they itch.

 

“I know who I am, Will. And you know very well what I've done and what I'm capable of: I am killer; even if I stopped actively killing, I would remain one. Nothing will change that. You must never mistake me for a good man.”

 

“I know that; you're the worst fucking thing that could ever happen to me. I'll never excuse what you've done, it's impossible. You hurt me, you hurt so many people... but it doesn't make what you're trying to do now less... endearing. You have all this... raw need for companionship: my companionship. You want it, you want me so bad it messes you up; and it makes all your vulnerability come out. You being a killer doesn't cancel your humanity.”

 

Will doesn't look away from him, not even when Hannibal closes his eyes and stays silent again for a while, his fingers rubbing against the keys, but without pressing on them.

 

It's so important for Will to see him like this, so open in front of him, just like Will has been for him so many times; his eyes are way kinder, more than a man like Hannibal would deserve: he wants to put together the broken pieces he sees there, not shatter them more to see what will happen.

 

When Will reaches out to touch his hand, the man allows it, even though he does recoil away from him for a moment. 

 

His hands are strangely cold, and he warms them into his own, rubs them until Hannibal holds it back and turns to look at him.

 

“You make me want so many different things: to destroy you, to change for you, to kill you, to worship you. I want to fit in every part of your life, sink my teeth into everything that is yours and leave an imprint there. I need you to be mine, and I want you to own me... I will hurt you, and give you everything you want. Kill you and kiss you at the same time.”

 

Will kisses him, gently, struggling to find a comfortable position on the little bench they're still sitting on; Hannibal holds on to him, presses his nose against his neck and breathes him in, clinging like he's afraid he'll fall if he lets go.

 

“I want the same. You, this. I don't care how much you'll make me suffer; we are both terrible, fucked up people. It's only fair for us to get to be fucked up together...”

 

Will rests their foreheads together.

 

“I wish I could hate you as much as I hate what you've done. I wish I could... turn you in, kill you, get rid of you somehow. But I don't; I don't hate you. And I want you in my life way too much to allow you to get away from me. I can't forgive you... but I need you. I want you; and it makes me so selfish I don't care about anything else.”

 

“I think our lives would be so much easier if we could hate each other...”

 

Hannibal looks pleased after, and Will knows he was right; that this was a very well orchestrated and measured manipulation: but he's not sure the man intended for him to understand so much. He always manages to knock him off his game and use it to his advantage.

 

They never stop pushing and pulling at the barriers around themselves; they want to destroy them no matter what will happen.

 

It's that thrill that keeps them together.

 

“You can come to my house, play with my dogs, teach me to play the piano. Everything you want. Take me to Italy, to France; I don't care where we go. I just want more of this, okay? Give me more of this and you can have me forever, do all you want to me...”

 

The man smiles and kisses him again, then unbuttons his shirt a little to bite his shoulder, to remind him just how dangerous he is and always will be.

 

Will moans and leans into it.

 

“Stay the night?”

 

Hannibal licks the bite on his shoulder in response.

 

\-----

 

They retire in bed, hiding under the covers, with Will resting on Hannibal's chest, while the man pulls at his hair and rubs at his scalp while they both relax, trying to internalize the emotions of the night.

 

Will licks his collarbone, sucks little bruises on his neck, until he hears Hannibal moaning under him, his breaths hanging in his throat.

 

They don't have sex again, but fumble around for a while, touching everywhere they can reach, rubbing their bodies together, like they're desperately searching for each other's heat; it's slow and intimate, so different from their earlier frenzied fuck: this is almost an exhausted and blind need to touch the other, to feel the pressure they can make together and sink into it.

 

Hannibal has his eyes closes and keeps kissing him, nails sliding against his skin; Will makes little, breathy sounds that resonate so loudly in the room, it gives them the impression of drowning into them.

 

When they stop, too tired to continue for much longer, the room is so silent it feels like they're the only two people left in the whole world: the dogs are quiet, watchful, but removed from them. They're trapped in each other's arms; Hannibal's eyes are so warm and so terrible, and for a second, Will sees his smile stained red with blood, before the image passes and the sudden chill leaves his body.

 

“Are you satisfied? I bet you are, you must be really proud of yourself...”

 

Hannibal smiles up to him.

 

“And why is that?”

 

“You got me to admit all you wanted to hear from me; that I want you and I'll never give you up or betray you...”

 

“I knew that already, Will.”

 

He grins; his fingers pull gently at his chest hair.

 

“Hearing me saying it it's different; it makes it real, solid. For both of us.”

 

“Then yes: I am proud and satisfied. And so should be you. We are are made of such similar yet different things, Will. It's good to know we have each other.”

 

Will doesn't reply, and Hannibal kisses his forehead, whispers something in a language he doesn’t understand to his ear, before caressing his cheek and then closing his eyes: Will watches him fall asleep, his breathing becoming even under his hands, his heart beating slowly.

 

He doesn't want to succumb to sleep so easily; but his body is so tired and heavy he can barely handle it.

 

His eyelids close on their own, and Will is pulled under.

 

\-----

 

It's the new dog that wakes him up, yelping helplessly at the storm raging outside the house: it takes Will a long moment to understand what's going on, to rub his eyes in the dark and regain enough consciousness to look around himself a turn on the light on the bedside.

 

His heart is beating so fast, he's deaf to anything else, even the storm, until he finally calms down.

 

Hannibal is turned away from him, his back facing Will; he doesn't wake up, not even when he gets up and walks over to caress the dog to calm him, allowing him to rub against him, keeping him in a warm hug until he relaxes again.

 

The rest of the pack closes around Agent Cooper and tries to comfort him; after a few moments, the dog is blissfully asleep again. Will admires the scene with a smile; then goes to make sure every door and window is locked.

 

He used to be terrified of thunders as a child, and had no one to run to when the fear got a hold of him; the noise was overwhelming, it shook him to his bones and petrified him. He had to stay hidden under the covers until the storm was over, moaning just like a wounded dog, feeling the humiliation hot on his cheeks.

 

Now he has his dogs, his house, his new life; and he has Hannibal, who's a bigger nightmare than all his other fears put together. 

 

Now he feels safe; and that's more than his younger self could say.

 

He goes back to bed shivering, his feet cold against the floor, his arms' skin raised by goosebumps, and a deep sense on uneasiness pooling in his belly. 

 

Hannibal looks haunted and foreign in his bed, like a ghost; like he doesn't really belong there and could disappear at any time. Will stares at him for a long moment, then runs a hand through his hair, and the man sighs, leaning into the touch, but continues to sleep, blissfully unaware of the world around him. 

 

He look so pale, so frail, despite how well Will knows how strong he can be, how deadly; he runs his fingers on the outline of his muscles, and the contact is like a fire under his skin.

 

It's so odd to see him like this: the beast is so far hidden inside him, that all that appears is the human side of him, the broken one he feels obliged to protect.

 

Will hugs him from behind, kisses the back of his neck and wraps himself around him, listening to his breaths, massaging his arms and his sides for a while; then he falls asleep again.


	7. à la carte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to update this: I'm just having a lot of problems writing this story, the words just won't come. I'm not happy with this chapter or with my writing in general lately.
> 
> I do hope this chapter isn't too bad, even though it looks that way to me. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Next chapter should come soon, hopefully.

Will is genuinely surprised when, one night, Hannibal proposes to take him out for dinner instead of staying home like they usually do.

 

And even though he has countless of questions hanging on his lips, he doesn't ask anything or argues with him: he just nods and smiles.

 

He even allows the man to pick his clothes for him, to dress him up according to his desires, fix his tie and comb his hair just right with a grin on his face; Hannibal observes him for a long time after, his hands firmly on his arms and a blank expression on his face.

 

Their reflection in the mirror is striking and powerful: Hannibal looks perfectly at ease in his dark blue tuxedo, with a wine red tie that brings out his eyes; Will is less convincing in his charcoal suit, but he tries to straighten himself and look as dignified as he can manage. But there's an undeniable beauty in it, in the contrast between them: in the way power seems to shift from one to the other.

 

They don't speak during this time, but right before they leave, Hannibal gently kisses him, and Will relaxes in his arms. He wants to say something, to make any comment that would break the ice, but words fail him, drowned inside his mind by the heaviness of his thoughts: they are so dense he feels like he could reach out and touch them if he tried.

 

He chooses to respect Hannibal's silence in the end; but how reserved and pensive he is doesn’t escape him. And he can't help wondering what he's hiding behind this sudden change in attitude.

 

The restaurant where they go is very small, very intimate, and as formal as he would've expected it to be, considering Hannibal's preferences: it's Italian, like the one he went to with Alana, but the feeling is completely different, with a much heavier and constructed aura to it; it makes Will shiver in discomfort.

 

No one pays attention to them right away, and their table is private enough to put Will at ease; but being there, almost on display, is completely different from the collected peace they have at Hannibal's house, from the intimacy they share there.

 

He looks around, feels the weight of the company of the other people in the room, of how they steal glances at the two of them despite the distance between them and the rest of the tables; Hannibal doesn't look particularly relaxed either, even though he doesn't blast it out like surely Will is doing.

 

“Why are we here? We could have had dinner at your house...”

 

“You mentioned what Alana Bloom told you about my passion for trying out new restaurants. I had meant to come to this place for a while now; I merely took the opportunity to do it with you.”

 

All the dishes on the menu are in Italian and with no English explanation under their names; so Will simply tells Hannibal to choose for the both of them, receiving an amused look and a gracious translation in return.

 

They order, and then silence falls again between them; they're sitting very close together, their knees touching under the table. Will puts his hand on Hannibal's and smiles at him, to smoother the tension between them.

 

The man, bold enough not to care about all the people around them and about their whispers, kisses him on the temple, then on the lips, his fingers running through his hair in a warm, reassuring caress.

 

How their relationship changes, and feels different when they're not alone, it's always surprising to Will: he can see how the world sees Hannibal and that's sometimes he tries not to do, because it's easy to forget it's all an act and to drown into it.

 

The mask of normality he wears is so well crafted, it can fool almost everyone: but it still has holes and flaws nobody can see but him. He's charming, glowing like a divinity; he mesmerizes everyone he meets.

 

And nobody can tell who he really is; nobody can see the beast he hides under layers and layers of calculated courtesy and the right amount of eccentricity.

 

Will fits so oddly well by his side; they're such an odd pair, people can't help but stare. But they make it work, they seduce their audience with their wild beauty and the aura of hidden secrets they emanate.

 

“Did you want to put me on display for the world to see?”

 

“Would you object, if that was the case?”

 

He doesn't reply right away and focuses on his food for a while instead: it's good, the wine is excellent, but he still feels out of place and trapped somewhere he'd prefer not to be. He wishes they were home alone, but keeps those thoughts for himself.

 

“No, I wouldn't. It's interesting though: you don't like to share me with people we both consider important; yet you don't care about these people here. You flaunt us; you kiss me in public, while otherwise you keep your distance from me, even in front of Abigail. Like you don't want them to see us like that. I can't decide if it's because you're incredibly possessive or worried people who know us better would understand how fucked up we are if they stared for too long.”

 

But it's Hannibal the one who's staring at him for a long time now, no one else; the red of the wine reflects in his eyes and on his tie while he drinks, making them look on fire or dripping blood. He takes a deep breath and a few bites of his antipasto, before replying.

 

“If I could, I'd keep you away from everyone, not just from the people we know; you'd be locked away somewhere only I could reach. But, obviously, that is impossible.”

 

Will sighs, his mouth still half full, and swallowing is suddenly incredibly hard, because his mind is overwhelmed by the idea in a seductive way that scares him. He takes a deep breath and empties his glass, then stares while he watches Hannibal refilling it again, with a graciousness that clashes with his words.

 

“You isolated me once, though, or tried to. While I was sick, you wanted me to rely only on you and not to trust anyone else. You made me doubt the texture of my reality, the people in my life, you wanted me to drown in the hallucinations: I was desperate, confused, helpless and you exploited it. You thought you could have me all for yourself.”

 

“It didn't do much good to my cause.”

 

Will snorts and shakes his head at his words.

 

“I have to say I appreciate your honesty and how unapologetic you are about your actions. You don't try to sugarcoat them: you hurt me, terribly; you don't try to justify yourself saying you did it for me, because you cared about me.”

 

Hannibal cleans his lips, and Will can see how hard he's holding the napkin. He can't help imagine the grip of those fingers around his neck.

 

He doesn't reply, lets Will's words fall between them, and then accepts them with a nods; his silence is probably the closest he'll ever get to an apology. It's him acknowledging the damage he did to him, and the pain he caused.

 

And Will isn't sure he can pretend anything more from him.

 

Or if he wants to.

 

“Where would you keep me, if you could take me away from the world? Locked up in your basement, drugged and strapped down to a bed? Completely at your mercy and dependent on you for everything?”

 

Hannibal makes a face and puts down the silverware for a moment.

 

“Please, do not be so crass, Will.”

 

“What would you do then?”

 

“I'd take you away. Far away from here. Italy or France. We could get a house somewhere isolated and secretive, and stay there.”

 

“You mean you would force me to stay there.”

 

All the man does is staring at him for a long moment, before Will catches his lips moving upwards almost imperceptibly, and a shiver runs through his spine at that. He knows he thought about it before, probably tried to find a way to enact it: his plan is so precise, so well crafted.

 

What did he imagine to do to him to convince him to go? He can think of so many horrible things, so many threats against him and the people he loves.

 

But then, he realizes, back then he could've persuaded Will to follow so easily, because he trusted him completely and there was no one else he listened to more than him. Maybe he would've even manipulated him to be the one to propose to leave. It's an uneasy thought, to understand finally how much power Hannibal had over him.

 

“Perhaps in time you would come to enjoy it.”

 

“I am sure you'd be... very persuasive.”

 

He tries to imagine it, and it's surprisingly hard; not because he can't picture Hannibal doing that to him: he knows far too well what the man is capable of, what he already did to him, what he could've done.

 

But because imagine the two of them somewhere else, it's impossible for him. They have their scenery, the background that fits them the best, their rituals: and an isolated farmhouse somewhere in Italy it's hard to fit in his vision of who they are.

 

“I'd like to go to Italy with you, to see you there, in a completely different place and environment, one you obviously love very much. But... I don't think I could ever get away from here forever; I wouldn't belong there.”

 

Hannibal nods after a moment.

 

“Then we won't. There's no need to run away, after all.”

 

At least there isn't now, but what if? He can't help asking himself that question: what Hannibal would do with him if he was forced to flee the country.

 

If he would leave him behind or take him with him, even forcing him if he had to. Or if Will would go willingly; doing everything in his power to protect him, just like he has done so far. The threat is always there, and Will is afraid of himself sometimes, of the lengths he'd go to to keep Hannibal safe and with him.

 

Maybe, if something terrible happened, I'd be the one locking you away somewhere; to keep you safe with me, where no one would ever find you.

 

He thinks all that, but says nothing: he goes back to his food and to ignore the weight on his stomach. It's far too stressful to think about this while they are in public.

 

So he tries to change the subject to something lighter, while they wait for their main courses.

 

“When I graduated from the police academy, I brought my dad to a restaurant like this one. Well, a far less expensive one, but it was still nicer than the diners we were both used to.”

 

Hannibal observes him smiling at the thought, shaking his head at the memories of that night: his dad was still well enough, even though the suit he wore was already starting to look a little baggy on him, and he was losing weight and health fast.

 

But it's a bright image in his mind, something he holds close to his heart and that he tries never to forget. It had been one of the few serene moments between them he can remember.

 

“You are smiling. I assume it's a good memory.”

 

“He didn't really enjoy the food, you know: he was a simple man, complained about the small portions, but... yeah. It is. We were in a good moment of our lives, even though he was already sick. But... we got along for a whole evening and that was a lot for us.”

 

Will sighs, and looks away for a moment. Hannibal doesn't relent from asking more, of course: he loves to discover new tender spots inside of him, to poke them until they bleed.

 

“Do you miss your father?”

 

The question feels so foreign coming from him, as does the tact and faint kindness he can hear in his voice. He can't tell if he's faking it or being sincere. It's getting harder to understand him, these days: and Will thought he knew him well by now, that he could easily slip inside of him and read what he needed to know directly from his heart.

 

But Hannibal is clouded and secretive, acts in unexpected ways: and it leaves Will paralyzed and insecure. He shrugs.

 

“Sometimes I do, I guess. I miss what our family could've been, if we had both been different. He was the only parent I had, after all. He was important for me, despite all the problems we had in our relationship.”

 

"You have regrets; you wish you could've done more to mend your relationship with him. Do you ever wonder if your father felt the same? Or if he, perhaps, did not care at all?"

 

Wills looks away, and smiles nervously.

 

"I guess I'll never know. No point in asking myself those questions."

 

The man sips his wine slowly. He doesn't make further comments, but Will knows he's registering the new information and finding out how they fit in the idea of him he has in his mind, how they can work in his favor and give him some advantage.

 

Hannibal wants to know him: he wants to dissect him and discover every part of him, analyze it and tear it apart. That, at least, is never in question.

 

So it's only fair for Will to do the same.

 

“What about you? Do you miss your parents?”

 

He smiles at him, and Will knows he perfectly understood the aim of his question. There's pride in his eyes.

 

Will shivers in his seat, because, no matter what, the way Hannibal looks at him gets him every time: it slips under his skin and scratches it away until his insides are exposed.

 

He doesn't look away.

 

“I missed their abstract presence during my youth, I think; I was too young when they died to really miss them as people who inhabited my life. I barely remembered them, I did not know them, so I could not feel their absence as strongly as some of the other children in the orphanage, I did not have clear and vivid memories to cling to; they were so far away in my thoughts: very distant and out of focus. I never wasted much time thinking about them. Adapting to my surroundings was way more important to me back then.”

 

He's tense again, and Will can see all the crossed wires inside of him: this is a mined field he's not sure how to navigate without blowing both of them up.

 

Hannibal turns towards him and his eyes pierce through his body without mercy: he can feel them inside him flesh likes knives, and cherishes every wound they inflict.

 

“And you... never missed? Having a family?

 

"If I ever did, I cannot remember it. I accepted my solitude and made the best of my circumstances. By the time my uncle found me, I was too old to need a mother or a father figure in my life. I only stayed with my uncle's family a few years, then I came here and left that part of my life behind."

 

Will resists the temptation to touch his hand, to say something that would be meant as soothing, but that Hannibal would only find condescending. He knows because probably he would feel the same way: pity is disgusting for both of them, they just can't stomach it.

 

They know how to be terrible for each other; but they still don't really know how to be good and kind.

 

"Sounds like a very lonely life, even by my standards."

 

Hannibal nods absently.

 

"There are worse things, Will."

 

"Yeah, I suppose there are."

 

\----

 

Despite all this, the evening is incredibly pleasant, far more than Will would've imagined; they almost managed to look normal for a few hours, fitting together perfectly.

 

And in the end, Will realizes that he really needed this: to meet with him on neutral ground, and to face the world without the barriers and the protections of their respective houses.

 

Hannibal feeds him from his plate with his fingers, allowing Will to suck on them for a second, to lick them clean before he retreats them; and in the end, the man looks at him like he's the only thing he really wants to sink his teeth into.

 

Will realizes that he doesn't care about the people around them; they can stare all they want, imagine what they want: they'll never know, no one will ever know or understand them. And that realization is intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.

 

They don't talk much; the silence between them is saturated and heavy, but that's how they like it. They build up the tension and throw off sparks at the right time, to explode and burn together in each other's arms.

 

The air outside is terribly cold when they leave the restaurant and, instead of going right back to Hannibal's car, decide to take a walk, food sitting heavy in their stomachs and a sudden energy pumping into their veins, making it impossible to sit still.

 

Will wraps himself into his brand new coat, another unexpected gift, trying to shield himself from the harsh wind that blows on his face; Hannibal is quiet by his side, but sometimes there are quick, appreciative glances that the man directs at him when he thinks he's not looking.

 

They walk so closely their body heats pass between them.

 

“Alana invited me to her house to cook for her and her partner. Abigail should come too, but we'll probably be alone for quite a while. I don't think I've ever been alone with her in her house before.”

 

“I am sure you'll be up the task; and that the dinner will be a great success.”

 

Hannibal looks so calm, like a very still lake: but with monsters hiding in its depth. And Will wonders what he's thinking about, feels the need to keep poking him until he'll figure it out.

 

“Yeah, well. I hope so. It'll be my first time cooking for someone I don't know; can't say I'm not nervous about it... but at the same time, I'm curious to meet this man. I'm sure it'll be interesting.”

 

“Do you fear the situation may become awkward because of the precedents between you and her?”

 

Will doesn't look at him, but knows Hannibal caught the ironic tone in his voice; he takes a deep breath and stares at the empty and dark street stretching in front of them, at the closed shops and the lonely cars that pass them by.

 

He never asked the man how he feels now about his past “romantic overtures” towards Alana; and maybe had expected him to bring it up sooner or later. But it never happened and the only time they ever discussed the topic, was right after the event, when the situation between them was far too uneven and complex.

 

And maybe now they both prefer to leave that time in the past, and not dwell on it more than necessary. Still, his curiosity remains.

 

“I hope it won't be. But... you know... I'm not sure he'll be as relaxed and understanding as you are.”

 

He tries not to sound bitter or tense, but Hannibal grins and looks so genuinely amuse, Will is sure he said something along the way that made him gain the upper hand, and he's not sure he likes that.

 

“Would you have preferred it, if I had been jealous of your past almost involvement with Alana? Were you expecting me to be?”

 

Will makes a face at that, and suddenly feel embarrassed and curses himself for bringing up the topic.

 

“I wasn't expecting anything from you. But... after what you told me tonight... I don't know how far your possessive behavior goes. So I wonder.”

 

The man stops walking right in front of their car, and Will leans against the side, smiling when he gets closer and traps him there. It's easier to understand him while they're so close.

 

“Do I have reasons to be jealous of you and her?”

 

“No, you know I'm not interested in her like that; not anymore at least.”

 

Hannibal smiles and puts his gloved hands on his waist, holding the two of them together against the car; he stays still, waiting for a kiss, but it doesn't come. And they just keep staring at each other in the awfully lit parking lot, shivering in the winter cold. Will isn't sure if he finds it ridiculous or romantic.

 

“Then I am not.”

 

“Is it really as simple as that?”

 

“Alana Bloom is pregnant and engaged; even if you wanted, I am sure she'd never allow anything to happen between you two. And even ignoring this detail, I am not interested in knowing who you find attractive or desire to fuck. I never cared much for monogamy or fidelity, as long as it is not hidden from me.”

 

Will's breath falters, and he swallows difficultly, before regaining control and straightening himself. But Hannibal surely caught the surprise that flickered across his face, and he bites his lips at that.

 

“Are you saying you'd be okay with me fucking someone else, if I told you I wanted to?”

 

He shrugs, elegant as a lion even in this situation, with his eyes shining in the half darkness around them; Will bites his chapped lips and then licks them.

 

“If you told me, then yes, I wouldn't care too much. I know you would come back to me eventually. We share too much to leave each other completely. I would not object if you wanted... distractions outside our relationship.”

 

Will scoffs, almost incredulous: he knows Hannibal is telling the truth, because he can read it in his eyes, in the way the man is looking at him; but he also knows how deeply he needs absolute control over everything and everyone.

 

The man smiles in response to the confused look on his face, and caresses him: the leather is cold against his skin, and it makes him moan.

 

“Let's get inside; it's rather cold now. I wouldn't want you to get sick.”

 

They both sit in the car, the motor roaring under them, the AC blasting warm air on both their faces, until they stop shivering; Will looks at Hannibal trying to understand the expression on his face, too curious to let the topic go.

 

“You just told me you wanted to lock me up, to take me away from everyone so no one else could have or influence me but you; but, at the same time, you'd have no objections to me having an affair with someone else? How am I supposed to believe that?”

 

Hannibal relaxes against the seat, closes his eyes for a moment and then inhales and exhales very slowly. His anatomy is fascinating, Will thinks as he observes every change of expression on his face, every almost invisible movement he makes; he wants to twist that calm into pure fury or pain, to see absolute joy, despair or fear on his features; to eat them up and consume them.

 

The man turns towards him after a long moment, and his eyes are like liquid tar in the darkness around them.

 

"Perhaps you misunderstood my words: I believe that what we have together goes far deeper and beyond our physical need for each other. We enjoy each other sexually, obviously, but it's separated from the rest of our relationships. All my past affairs, as you called them, were never exclusive; if my partner wished to end it, or pursue other liaisons while it continued, I never objected."

 

"Because you didn't care for them? While you care about me? Or, at least, you are more possessive of me?"

 

"They were not as unique as you are; I cared for them enough; but yes, you are indeed different. You know me; no one else can claim that."

 

Wills takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, like he always does when he's nervous or confused: Hannibal's words hover over him, like a heavy rock pressed on his body and about to crush it. He feels lost, because he can't make sense of what the man is telling him; and he knows his manipulations are always there trying to pull his strings and swing him in the direction he wants Will to go, to reach the conclusions that are more favorable to him.

 

“Then even more you shouldn't want me to be with anyone else. Would you really risk losing me like that? After you spent so much time and efforts to get me?”

 

He can't understand the game he's playing, can't even tell if he's playing one or just provoking him to get amusing reactions out of him, because Hannibal likes to watch him squirm and blush and eats up his distress like a delicious meal; he's his favorite lab rat, after all.

 

“Would it be so easy for me to lose you? Would you just run to the first person you found attractive to get away from me?”

 

“Sometimes I wish it could be so easy. But you're like an infection; you poisoned my blood and my mind. You're like a parasite and I'll never be free of you.”

 

Hannibal smiles and takes his hand, kissing his palm, licking the lines on it as he watches Will sigh and shut his eyes tight.

 

“I am not sure if you're aware or not of how incredibly seductive your voice sounds while you say these things to me. You relish that image, just as much as you enjoy belonging to me and owning me at the same time. Perhaps that is why you find this notion so unsettling? You want us to belong only to each other? Or maybe, you understand how unusual and unorthodox our relationship is, and you wish to keep it into conventional boundaries like that of monogamy, so you'll be able to make sense of it. So it'll fit in your vision of things... and monogamy is a very important value in your religion after all.”

 

Will smiles, just a hint, but enough for Hannibal to look truly pleased; then he lets him go and starts the car so they can head home. It's past midnight and the streets are deserted. He looks outside the windows and collects his thoughts for a moment, before speaking again.

 

“Maybe there's a part of that too; I won't deny it. I try to see us as a normal couple sometimes, more for my own amusement than for anything else. I know normality is impossible for us... but how unsettled I am now, it's mostly because I have no idea what this means for you: you said you'd be okay with us having... an open relationship, but I'm not sure how this can coexist with your idea of us, considering how overwhelming what we have together can be.”

 

“You asked me a question: and I answered it. Would I be bothered if you found someone else attractive, perhaps desired having sex with them, and discussed the possibility of an affair with me? No, probably not. Do I want you all for myself? Yes. I never claimed to be free of contradictions. You know how dangerous I can be; you know me. I desired you so much I was willing to destroy you in order to make you see the world like I do. This new information changes nothing; I am not different from the man you thought I was.”

 

Hannibal is concentrated on driving, but also on trying to look unfazed by their conversation: but and his voice is harsh in ways that makes Will's skin prickle with the desire to be possessed by him, taken and owned like an object, like a propriety. And he wants to see Hannibal beg him not to leave him, to watch him on his knees, debased and humiliated just for him.

 

They're a walking contradictions: what they have is all consuming, it burns everything, and they want more, so much more, they want their whole lives to revolve around it. But they also carve escape routes and secret doors, real or imaginary, to get away from it, so they can breathe fresh air and escape the toxic vapor that surrounds them.

 

“And what if I didn't tell you? What if I went behind your back? Would you kill them, if I did?”

 

Hannibal says nothing for a long time, not until he parks in front of his house; then he stops the car and stares right into his eyes.

 

“I don't know.”

 

Will laughs nervously at that, at the honesty in his voice; Hannibal exits the car with no further words, and he follows him inside the house, staring at his back as they walk towards the kitchen. He's a mystery, there's so much of him he'll never understand or figure out. And he guards his secrets well, keeping them all somewhere not even Will can reach.

 

It makes him even more desperate to discover them all.

 

“I don't want anyone else; you are more than enough. I can't even handle one affair, let alone two.”

 

Hannibal inclines his head on one side for a moment: Will stares back and smiles.

 

“Good then. No need to worry about it.”

 

Will goes to kiss him, pushing him against the counter and feeling his grin against his lips; he's so smug he just wants to kick him until he'll stop smiling; but also wants to keep kissing him and watch him like that for days.

 

“This conversation bothered you. Perhaps you need to ask yourself why.”

 

“Stop psychoanalyze me, you're not my doctor anymore.”

 

Hannibal kisses him hard again, fingers tangled in his curls and pulling lightly until Will's moaning and rubbing his body against his despite how worn out and tired he feels.

 

“Bed?”

 

Will's voice is low and seductive; and Hannibal nods, before pulling his hair back to expose his neck, pressing warm kisses on his skin until he's moaning again.

 

Then he takes his hand and guides him upstairs.

 

\-----

 

Will's lying on the bed hours later, a hand caressing his stomach, staring at the ceiling and waiting for Hannibal to come back from the bathroom. He's wearing a new silk pajamas that feels too soft and too foreign on his skin, like a costume: something that doesn't really belong to him; but he didn't feel like refusing him, so he put it on without arguing. He seems to be unable to do it today anyway.

 

He's lost in his thoughts, but at the same time relaxed; his body is pliant and sated after sex, but his mind won't let him rest and keeps bringing up the conversation he had with Hannibal earlier.

 

Like his words are ghosts haunting him that he can't shake off.

 

Will closes his eyes and tries to imagine himself in someone else arms: their hands on his skin, how kissing and touching them would feel like. But he realizes that he can't.

 

All he feels is Hannibal, as if his touches are imprinted on his skin, burning and marking it: they're all still so vivid a moan escapes his lips, and his eyes jerk open, air heavy in his lungs.

 

The man returns in the room while Will's rubbing his eyes, and he slides in bed next to him, covering him with his body and both of them with the thick comforter: he's smiling, but it's a grin that promises nothing good for him, with a malicious color in it that makes him sigh and cling to his shoulders.

 

Hannibal kisses his neck, pressing his lips against his pulse.

 

The warmth around them is almost too much; Will wants to push him away so he can breathe more easily and fight away the sweat that is already pooling on the back of his neck; instead pulls him closer and accepts his touches.

 

After a while, Hannibal stops.

 

“You are tense. I hope not to be the cause of it.”

 

“You always are, but don't worry about it. I was just thinking too much.”

 

The man looks straight at him, chaining his eyes to Will's with that deep, fiery and intense gaze he can master so well when he wants to pin him where he is; and he swallows thickly, looking away when he can't hold it anymore.

 

“May I ask what are you thinking about?”

 

Will sighs and kisses him, keeping him close, almost crushed on top of him, and he can feel Hannibal smiles still in place, making him want to do and say thing he'll probably regret.

 

He could shrug it all off and pretend everything is fine; lie down on his chest and allow his heartbeat to lull him into an uneasy sleep: but instead he masters up words and courage, his gaze never faltering this time.

 

“About all your contradictions. You want me not to keep secrets from you, to be completely honest and open; but, at the same time, you hide from me. There's so much you don't tell me. And I'm not sure what to make of this.”

 

Hannibal's lips quirk in distaste, but he doesn't move away.

 

“Are you still referring to our earlier conversation? Are you worried I might have an affair behind your back?”

 

“Let's take that as an example: you told me you'd be okay with me having a lover if I told you. But what if you wanted to have one, but I didn't want to know about it? Would you still go ahead in that case?”

 

They both know what he's really talking about; the real words hang between them like a sword. Will knows Hannibal hasn't killed in a while, that he has been honest with him so far.

 

But what if? What if he started again? Would he tell Will? Would Will want to know?

 

He's not sure he has answers to these questions, if he can find them or wants to. And they haunt him, sinking deep into his flesh like knives and tearing him apart.

 

Every time he eats something Hannibal prepared, he wonders, even if only for a moment: he always does. The Ripper is a ghost he can't exorcize, can't eliminate from their lives no matter how hard they both try to move away from its shadow.

 

Sometimes, in his nightmares, Will still sees the stag staring back at him with its black and matte eyes; when it charges and impales him with its antlers, it feels like coming alive.

 

Pain and pleasure mix into him, and he wakes up hard and covered in sweat.

 

He doesn't say all this, all the thoughts that are swinging in his head, threatening to make it explode with their weight, but keeps looking at Hannibal and waiting for him to speak again.

 

When he finally does, his face doesn't even change expression: he remains unreadable.

 

“These are questions we'll never be able to answer surely, not now at least, when their subject is abstract and hypothetical at its best; contradictions are the foundation of our relationship: you stay with me despite what I have done. I do the same even thought you're a dangerous liability for me. I promised never to lie to you again; and I have so far kept my promise: this is all I can say.”

 

“But you are keeping secrets: you are distant and absent, lost God only know where in your mind. And it's really hard not to read too much into that. Not to... suspect. You can't ask me not to.”

 

“Why don't you question me then? Ask what tortures you and I will answer. But if you will believe my answers or not, that depends entirely on you.”

 

Will bites his lips and hides against the crook of his arm, draping it across his face so it conceals his eyes.

 

“Maybe I don't want to hear the answers... maybe they frighten me much more than you could ever. They're dangerous.”

 

“Every word that ever passed between us was dangerous. They are like razors, cutting our skins and leaving their marks there for us to see, so we can remember.”

 

Hannibal caresses his hair and his face, kissing him again almost too gently, merging comfort and cruelty in all his gestures.

 

Will remembers the kindness in his hands even while he was lying to him about his health, the gentleness in his voice while he manipulated, and almost killed him. He's poisonous, and Will loves all of him so deeply he would never be able to let him go, no matter how much being with him could hurt.

 

He kisses his fingers, his palm, the scars on his wrist, and digs his nails hard into his shoulders; Hannibal bites his lips and they both moan into the kiss, staring at each other like they want to break through the walls separating them, and skin the other to uncover all their respective secrets.

 

“Do you want anyone else?”

 

His voice is low and sensual; Hannibal smiles at him.

 

“No.”

 

Will nods, staring back at him to read the truth in his eyes. He takes a very deep breath, air going in and out of his lungs, relaxing him as much as possible.

 

“Don't ever lie to me.”

 

Hannibal keeps smiling.

 

\-----

 

When he wakes up, Will feels like he hasn't slept at all: but the sun is filtering through the curtains, and the clock on the bedside tells him it's something past eight in the morning; he sighs deeply, his body heavy, weighted down by how tired he feels.

 

Hannibal next to him doesn't move, still immersed in his slumber: it's a rare sight for him, to catch him like this, so defenseless; Will runs his fingers on his face very lightly, not to disturb him, and then buries his face into the crook of his neck.

 

He remembers the first time he slept in that bed, while his brain was still boiling in his skull and his sanity was slipping away from him like water between his fingers: he could see Hannibal so clearly and at the same time, he looked like a monster to him.

 

Will saw him as the dark beast that inhabited his nightmares, something grotesque and obscene, ready to devour him, and the reality around him. He knew who he was, what he was, what he had done: he could see the blood dripping from his lips, his sharp and hungry teeth. He wanted to scream, to run away, to kill him slowly and make him suffer as terribly as he was suffering.

 

The storm that was raging outside the window that night, was nothing compared to the one inside of him.

 

But then, Hannibal had wrapped him in his arms, kissed his temple, whispered to him that everything was going to be fine: and his voice dripped both honey and blood, it tasted like that, and Will had kissed him, clung to his arms and buried himself against his chest.

 

He had hoped to feel repulsed by the touch, to finally come to terms to the monster that was holding him: but he felt only an overwhelming sense of calm and of belonging.

 

And believed all his words; trusted him even thought it felt like signing a contract with the Devil.

 

Now, in the half light that surrounds them, he wonders if the real reason why he feels so safe when he is in his arms, why he trusts him so much, it's because he already told him all the lies that could truly break him, if he had hurt him so hard and so deeply, that nothing else could match that cruelty.

 

Or if it's because, in the mist of hallucinations that plagued his mind, he could see the wounds inside of him and wanted to kiss them, to heal them.

 

He sighs and closes his eyes, hoping sleep will jump him again and he'll get a few more hours of rest: they have nothing to do that day, and sleeping in, for once, would be good.

 

But then Hannibal very slowly starts to open his eyes, and Will can't help focusing his whole attention on him: he looks unfocused and groggy for a moment, before he recognizes him and his face opens into an honest smile that hits him right in his guts, making him long to kiss him and hold him.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Hey. It's around eight, before you ask. We can stay in bed a little more.”

 

Hannibal nods and closes his eyes again, though he doesn't fall back into sleep: he's relaxed and soft under him, his mind lost inside itself, where not even Will can go or tell what he's thinking about. But he caresses his back and his hair, pulling him down until he's lying on his chest again, listening to his heartbeat.

 

Will reflects upon how much silence there is between them, how their relationship seems to be dominated by a quiet peace that is both soothing and infuriating for him.

 

They let it stretch around them, surround them like a shroud that keeps them contained, bound together by an ability to understand each other that goes beyond the need for words. But there are times when that it's not enough: and it's just natural that the contradictions in their relationship manifest themselves in something so apparently simple.

 

Because, sometimes, Will dreads his words more than anything, and silence is welcomed then, a balm on his tired body: he's afraid of everything that comes out of Hannibal's mouth, of how deep it's able to cut him. He has so many scars already, each one of them a blessing, a memento, something to be grateful of, but they still hurt and continue to multiply on his skin.

 

But his voice is soothing in ways silence will never be, no matter how tense what they have is: Hannibal whispers into his ears, reveals his deepest and darkest secrets, exposes his bones and leaves claw and bite marks on them, bruises him and instead of recoiling away from that pain, Will comes back for more every time.

 

He lies and manipulates, and yet his words still ring true and honest to his ears. And from them he finds out so much about him: their like mirrors, reflecting the inside of his mind.

 

Each one of them has a peculiar meaning and sound, a way to worm its way inside of him, showing him new sides of Hannibal and giving him more tools to dissect him.

 

Will sighs, and moves a little closer to him, trying to find a more comfortable position; Hannibal makes a feeble sound of displeasure, though he doesn't open his eyes.

 

“Your feet are cold.”

 

He can't help laughing at that, at how normal it sounds, even though he knows who it comes from.

 

“That's such a couple cliché thing to say. I hope you know that.”

 

Hannibal smiles: he looks so peaceful and relaxed, so normal No one can tell what he is, Will had told Jack once while describing the Ripper: and he had no idea how right he was back then.

 

The man finally opens his eyes to look at him.

 

“Are we not one? You said it yourself: you try to see us as a normal couple, you want us to be that way, as much as it can be possible, consider all you know about me. Isn't this what normalcy should look like?”

 

Will doesn't know what to say for a moment: he knows Hannibal is trying so very hard to fit in the domestic and safe part of his life, in the one less tainted by his job and by the baggage of knowledge he brings with him. But it's still hard to deal with it, to admit that Hannibal may want these things too.

 

He has no idea what he truly wants, except that, somehow, it happens to include him.

 

“I suppose; I'm not very experienced when it comes to long term relationships.”

 

“But you do enjoy this.”

 

“And that is enough for you? If I want it, you'll adapt yourself to my desires, and want it as well?”

 

Hannibal caresses his hair, but his eyes are not as reassuring as the rest of him tries so very hard to appear: there's still danger in him, hidden in the folds and cracks of him. Ironically, it makes Will feel safer to know that part of him is still there.

 

“Our relationship is built on compromises. I have adapted to worse things in my life.”

 

Will takes a deep breath, staring right in his eyes for a long moment.

 

“What do you really want from us?”

 

But the answers to his question never comes: Hannibal kisses slowly, making him moan against his mouth. Will doesn't want to let him go: wants to pin him there and force him to tell him the truth, what really grows and moves behind the masks he wears.

 

Even though he knows he'll never succeed in that.

 

Hannibal disentangles himself from him and gets up from the bed; Will misses the heat of his body immediately, but doesn't try to pull him back.

 

“I will start on our breakfast; feel free to come down whenever you like.”

 

Will stays in bed for a few minutes more, before following him: his skin still prickles where Hannibal was touching him, and he can still feel his hands and lips all over him. And the weight of his eyes, of their words is heavy on him.

 

He feels restless, almost needy for a resolution of their slithering conflict; he can't hold any of this inside anymore. But wanting all of this, and actually approaching Hannibal are different things.

 

The man is busy cooking when he enters the kitchen: Will tries not to focus on what he's doing, not to start analyzing it with his new knowledge. He could just take his usual spot on the sofa in the corner, immerse himself in his gestures and forget once again all the issues between them.

 

But instead, he goes to sit on the counter behind him; and Hannibal looks at him for a moment, curiosity on his features, before going back to work. For a while, they stay silent: Will stares at his back, and the muscles hiding under his shirt, trying to pierce through all the layers of cloth, skin and bones to reach the core of him. He wants to tear him apart to make sense of him.

 

“Remember when I first slept here after I found out about you? While I was still sick?”

 

“Yes, of course I do.”

 

Will takes a deep breath.

 

“I tried to hate you back then: all my nightmares, the monsters in my head, the hallucinations... I tried to blame it all on you. I made up possible ways to turn you in without destroying the lives of all the people around us. I wanted to kill you, to be... free of you.”

 

Hannibal turns around only for a moment, his eyes shining in the morning light: Will tries not to squirm in his seat under the weight of that gaze.

 

“What changed your mind?”

 

I am not sure I have, he wants to say, but he knows it wouldn't really be the truth: not the whole truth, at least. There are things he cannot forgive Hannibal, that will haunt their relationship as long as it'll last and that no amount of trust and closeness will ever erase.

 

And he still considers destroying his life from time to time: it would only take a few words to Jack, a few evidences he could easily still get from his house... and he'd be finished. But then, Will knows deep down, there's what he'll never be able to let go.

 

“I... didn't wanted to be alone anymore. And I feel much less alone with you in my life. I guess that's what I hate you for the most: making yourself so important to me; someone I could never replace. If I turned you in or killed you, I'd be lost.”

 

He's being more honest than he probably should, but his mouth moves on his own; Hannibal acknowledges his words with a nod that follows a long and deep silence. Will exhales, and that soft sound seem to reverberate around them.

 

“It should bother me a lot more, probably. But I'm not very surprised anymore by the fact that it doesn't. I wonder if you're as dependent on my presence in your life as I am on yours.”

 

“We are both alone without each other.”

 

“Yes, we are. We have other people in our lives, but it's not the same, isn't it? It'll never be the same again.”

 

Will weights those words inside himself for a moment: he feels empty in his guts, as if the words he's speaking are thinning him, making him hollow inside, and desperate to be filled. He wants to feel Hannibal's hands on his skin, to stop thinking.

 

“Come here.”

 

His voice is seductive enough to making Hannibal turn around right away, a grin opening on his face. He's curious, but also guarding himself, because they're touching exposed nerves and old wounds neither of them will probably ever be ready to examine, because they still hurt too much.

 

That's why Will wants to stop doing that: he has something else in mind, and it burns its way through his brain until he can't think of nothing else.

 

“I don't bite.”

 

Hannibal smiles, amused enough to be distracted from their previous conversation. He washes his hands and walks slowly towards him, until he's safely locked between his legs: Will caresses his shoulders.

 

“Yes, you do. I have many marks that prove it.”

 

Will starts unbuttoning his shirt, touching the bruises the man is sporting, kissing a couple of them before replying.

 

“You left so many scars on me; it's only fair I did the same to you. And, honestly, you love it.”

 

Hannibal kisses him, pinning him against the cabinet behind him: his teeth are on his lower lip and he moans, as his nails scratch the back of his neck.

 

“Every scar you give me it's a treasure; I relish them, how they look on me.”

 

“This shouldn't probably sound as hot as it does...”

 

The man nuzzles against his collarbone, trailing it with kisses: both their shirts fall on the floor quickly enough, and Will can't help laugh at the situation. They both pretend to be so civilized, so lost in the depths of their thoughts, but then they kiss or they touch and the electricity running between their bodies mutes everything and all they want is more of it.

 

“Shall we move back to the bedroom?”

 

“No, let's stay here. Fuck me right here in your kitchen.”

 

Hannibal starts protesting, but he puts a hand inside his pajama pants, feeling his cock swelling in his fist as he touches it. The man inhales deeply, but his eyes are still perfectly calm: Will remembers the fevered look they had in them that afternoon in his house, the urgency in every movement.

 

Now everything is so controlled, so safe. And he wants to destroy that.

 

His hands are everywhere, as they finish undressing him, until Will is sitting naked on the counter, shivering in the cold room, but unable to stop at this point. He feels so exposed, almost on display: he's just like any other junk of meat; ready to be devoured. And he wants nothing less.

 

He hands Hannibal the lube he brought with him from the bedroom: the man smiles and kisses him again, sucking bruises wherever he can reach, while he keeps masturbating him slowly.

 

“It will be messy.”

 

“Less messy than killing me here?”

 

Hannibal stops moving: he looks up to him like he has been hit right in the stomach and has no idea how to react to his words; Will bites his lips and curses himself, not sure if his boldness killed the mood or not.

 

But Hannibal's cock is still hard in his hand, and the look in his eyes is wilder, less controlled: like he has touched a key in him that set in motion emotions he can't keep contained.

 

“I wonder how much you fantasize about me killing you right here.”

 

“Probably as much as you do.”

 

Will sighs when Hannibal cups his face and kisses him again, biting tenderly on his lips, but enough to make it hurt.

 

“You would enjoy it, if I killed you here, making a mess of it. Your blood would taint every surface, so much it would become impossible to wash it all off.”

 

He nods, his eyes glossy with the feral need he feels to be touched, fucked and torn apart by him: Will licks Hannibal's lips and sinks his nails into his shoulders. The man kicks off his pants and they're both naked now, looking out of place and incongruous right there in his aseptic kitchen.

 

It only arouses him more, the idea of doing something forbidden and unexpected: he knows Hannibal would never do this with anyone else. And the sense of power and possession it gives him, it's intoxicating.

 

He could make him do everything he wanted, and that knowledge is almost dangerous inside of him, it stretches in his ribcage and overwhelms him, until he can't feel anything else.

 

“Of course I would: I want my blood to sip into you, to contaminate your body like you contaminated mine. I want to be everywhere, make you smell my blood in every room.”

 

Will bites Hannibal's chest, right above his heart, leaving an impression of his teeth on his flesh. He licks the mark, a proud smile on his lips.

 

That's when Hannibal falls down on his knees between his legs, spreading them further, wrapping his mouth around his cock while his fingers start preparing him. He has to grab the counter and his shoulder to sustain himself, moaning out loud, because yes, this is what he really needs: and he wants all of it, every bit of pleasure he can squeeze out of him. It all belongs to him, just like Hannibal does.

 

His mouth is so warm, and he has to stop himself from grabbing his head and fuck it hard until he'll come down his throat, marking him and watching him completely at his mercy. He feels feverish, like his skin has been set on fire and there's nothing that can put it down, nothing that can alleviate the almost painful desire that is suffocating him.

 

“God, I want to fuck your mouth...”

 

Hannibal looks up, still sucking on him: two of his fingers are scissoring him and Will has to look away, or he'll come right there. He looks so beautiful, so debauched it makes his blood boil.

 

“Such language...”

 

The man gets up and kisses him; the contact makes him moan, and he feels so warm under his hands.

 

“But you could do it, if you wanted. I would let you, and you are so perfectly aware of that.”

 

Will shakes his head.

 

“No, I want you inside of me. Now. Please?”

 

It hurts when Hannibal push forwards, it's too soon, and his body resists the intrusion: but neither of them cares by then; they're both so close they aren't going to last very long anyway. Will sobs against his shoulder, biting and kissing it and scratching his back to distract himself.

 

Hannibal is breathing heavily against his ear, and when he starts fucking him hard and fast right away, barely giving him time to adjust, Will smiles through the pain and kisses him.

 

It's quick, messy and uncomfortable: every muscle in his body is going to hurt after, and the strain against his back and legs is enough to make him ache for a release that will erase it all. But he's a sight to behold: Will can see the monster reflected in his eyes, and himself trapped in its claws, ready to be mauled.

 

Instead, the beast licks him, kisses him where he needs; there are so many marks that they have left on each other, and they can never be erased. Every single one of them is a key to their shared memories, to all they went through together: they made each other bleed so much; he wants to count and remember every bruise.

 

They come way too fast, but it's so intense he can barely breathe for a moment, eyes clicked shut and a long, desperate moan escaping his lips.

 

He keeps Hannibal inside for a long, long moment after they're done, caressing his hair and kissing his temple, until he manages to make him look at him. The man's eyes are so dark, so far away: he feels lost in them, in the desperate distance in them.

 

Will kisses him, rocks him against his chest, sighs when he very slowly pulls out and gathers their clothes. He stops him and holds him one moment more, smelling his skin covered in their sweat and licking it away from his arm.

 

“You're mine.”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

He tries to smile, they both do; Will wishes words could come easily for them, that they could fix the holes inside both of them. He knows it's impossible, and it makes his heart ache as much as his body.

 

He wants to say so much more, but the look in his eyes dissuades him. I can be your family, I can be all you want: the words hang in his mouth, but he doesn't let them come out.

 

He can't. It's not the right time: the air between them is too saturated.

 

Will kisses him one last time; then let's Hannibal go and gets dressed again.


	8. al dente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, super fast update! A miracle! I hope you'll enjoy the chapter. Thank you so much for all the great comments. :)

Will has barely enough time to park in front of Beverly's house, before the woman opens the car's door and storms in, twirling in a mess of red-black satin and silk: she checks her makeup in her compact mirror, before turning towards him, her eyes scanning him from head to toe.

 

He feels uncomfortable in his brand new tux, but still holds her gaze.

 

“So it's true: you don't actually own only plaid shirts and pants not even my grandpa would wear!”

 

They both laugh at it, and Will theatrically rolls his eyes, while Beverly settles more comfortably in her seat and wraps herself in her black coat: she looks stunning in her dress, but he holds back the compliment for now, waiting for the right time.

 

“I actually do own only plaid shirts: I had to go shopping for a tuxedo just for this occasion; please don't make me regret it.”

 

Beverly takes a deep breath and shakes her head.

 

“Maybe you should just wear it all the time, looks better on you than those tragic shirts.”

 

“Well, we can't all look as good as you all the time.”

 

She looks endeared by his compliment, but still stares at him with the same look she has sometimes on a crime scene: both curious and suspicious. Will looks away, and focuses on driving for a while: the sky is threateningly dark, but it's not raining yet; he hopes they'll reach the restaurant before the storm starts. He can smell it in his nostrils already.

 

He doesn't regret agreeing on being Beverly's plus one at her sister's wedding, but an unpleasant tension is already starting to creep inside of him: he's still not good at being sociable, and no matter how much he's changed during the past two years, it's still uncomfortable for him to be around total strangers.

 

Will knows she understands it, and probably is thinking about it while they drive. It's easy to empathize with her, to catch the veiled and genuine concern on her face. He knows she wouldn't have insisted if he had refused to go with her.

 

But he's trying to be a better friend: and Beverly is one of the strongest bonds he has in his life, and he wants to cultivate and strengthen it.

 

“How many people will be there?”

 

“Not too many; it's supposed to be a very private reception. We'll even have our own table, so don't worry: you won't have to interact with too many people. My brother, on the other hand, had a crazy wedding: his wife insisted on inviting basically her whole family! They had to schedule the ceremony so her relatives from Israel could be there: it was wild. There, I wouldn't have invited you.”

 

Will smiles.

 

“Well, I appreciated the invitation anyway. I hope I won't embarrass you.”

 

And for a while, silence fills the car once again, with Beverly looking out of the window and Will focusing on the road.

 

His clothes still feel way too new on him, unfamiliar, and their texture leaves a cold impression on his skin, like they can't keep him warm. He remembers Hannibal's hands on his body while he tried it on for fitting, the appreciative look in his eyes, and that brings some color to his cheeks.

 

Those were warm and pleasant: their heat filtered through the layers, reached his skin and filled him.

 

How much the man likes to dress him up, to mold him like clay in his hands until his appearance changes according to his desires, should be unsettling, instead of being subtly erotic: and he's way too eager to let him do it, because he likes the shining light in his eyes, the smile on his face, the appreciation he sees in his gestures.

 

They're so dependent on their little game, that they can't ever get enough of it.

 

Will is distracted from his thoughts, when Beverly turns on the radio and puts on some easy listening to chase away the silence that surrounds them: it's getting colder, so he turns the heating all the way up and that earns him another smile.

 

“So, how's the cooking going?”

 

“Really well. I was planning on inviting you over for dinner again one of these days. I've mastered this chicken recipe recently; you're going to love.”

 

He knows she's aiming for something else, but also that she's dancing around the subject because she still doesn't know how to ask, what words will make him open up to her.

 

“Zeller and Price are really offended you haven't offered to cook for them yet, by the way. Just giving you a heads up in case you ever happen to end up stuck in a elevator with them. We could invite them too! Lab rats squad dinner!”

 

“Yeah, I'm sure with you there to smooth things over between me and Zeller, we could manage not to end the evening with a bloodbath.”

 

The woman stares at him with a smile on her lips for a while: as a passing thought, he wonders what the strangers they'll meet will think of them. 

 

Beverly is beautiful: he'd have to be blind not to be attracted to her, and he is in a sense, not sexually, but in ways he'd probably admit out loud; but he can tell there's someone else in her life. Just like he has Hannibal's shadow hanging over him.

 

They're both taken and wrapped safely away in their secret relationships.

 

But they're also both good at pretending, at giving people what they want: and the woman can be positively flirty with him, in that reassuring and funny way that makes it less awkward than he ever imagined it could be. And he thinks he'd probably easily go along with it, if she wanted to pretend they're a couple.

 

“Have you cooked for your mysterious significant other yet?”

 

Will smiles to himself; the way she phrases things mixes her usual irony and genuine interest, and it's familiar in ways that help him relax.

 

“No, not yet.”

 

“Afraid you're still not good enough to impress him?”

 

Her words hit deeper than she probably intended them to; because she doesn't know, she has no idea of what kind of mess his relationship with Hannibal is: the simple gesture of cooking for him, of watching him eat the food he has prepared only for him... it carries so much weight and importance, Will feels crushed by it sometimes.

 

And he's scared of the emotions it'll generate inside of both of them, of how it'll impact their relationship: maybe that's why he's still postponing it, why he wants to be absolutely perfect and sure of his skills before crossing that boundary between him and Hannibal for the first time.

 

Food for them is not just related to nourishment: it's understanding, it's the secret source of power that Hannibal is so used to swing around like a sword; through cooking and through unveiling his secrets, Will discovered so much about him, and dug out old demons and nightmares he still doesn't know how to internalize. And he's afraid to see what else he can take out of him.

 

“Yeah, something like that.”

 

She nods and looks away.

 

“Did he take you shopping for the tux?”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

He's able to relax once again when the conversation goes back to a safe path, but the uneasiness that has been following around like a shadow, remains: because Will knows he'll have to face it soon and it eats him alive from the inside.

 

“Kinda, yeah: that's not really your style: I mean, it's obvious you had help in choosing the clothes. But it looks so good on you; it was chosen by someone who cares about you, who knows you. I'd be curious to meet him one day; you never really talk about him, but I can tell he's important for you.”

 

Will takes a very deep breath and considers her words attentively: Hannibal does care about him, it's impossible to deny it, but in a such a deeply destructive way, that it leaves him wounded and bleeding at his feet.

 

And yet, it's only with him that Will really feels safe, alive and understood: Hannibal looks at him and sees a work of art, the most incredible creature that has ever walked the earth; his hands bruise him, his teeth maul at his flesh and leave their marks on his skin, but he welcomes them, he accept each one of them like a gift.

 

That probably should frighten him and make him question his life and choices, should make him run away as far and fast as he can: because, even though Hannibal almost destroyed him, he's still there, is still not afraid of him. He drinks in his destruction and his devotion at the same time.

 

“It's hard to explain a relationship, when you feel like it'd only make sense to you, to other people. I could tell you about him, about what we have together, but... I'm not sure you could ever understand how that makes me feel, what it means for me. Because, sometimes... I ignore it as well. And I don't know how to put all that into words.”

 

Beverly laughs softly, but without any trace of mocking in her voice.

 

“We all go through that: we make things more complicated than they actually are. I don't want to get into your case, specifically, but... I have the feeling that, sometimes, when we realize how important someone is for us, we become so protective of them that it isolates us, even if we don't want that to happen. We find it so hard to talk about them, because we're afraid to share them: we don't want to give any of that to anyone else. I get it, Will.”

 

He nods, more to himself than to her.

 

“You're probably right.”

 

Will wonders if this is why he's so willing to hide the truth about Hannibal: it does nothing to ease his guilt, that weight on his heart that he has learned to live with, but it gives him perspective.

 

Hannibal is one of the few things in his life that has always been his own: and he won't let anyone take that away from him.

 

“Are you speaking from direct experience? You seem to know how I feel better than I do.”

 

Beverly smiles at him; she can be so transparent to him sometimes, and yet she still holds so many secrets from him. He watches her and sees one of the closest friends he ever had in his life, somebody he wants to look out and be there for. He hopes he can get that through to her even though he always feels out of his depth in these kind of interactions.

 

Will feels the need to cling to the few things in his life that are safe and normal, and then hopes the rest will, eventually, make sense as well.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You told me you would tell me if there was something up with you if I asked.”

 

“And are you asking?”

 

He thinks on that for a moment; he can see the lights of the restaurant in the distance, so, in the end, he shakes his head.

 

“No, not now at least.”

 

Beverly looks pleased.

 

“Good, because I have no intention of getting into that tonight. Wouldn't want to spoil the fun, you know? Maybe we can schedule another lunch date and if you still have questions, I'll answer them. Deal?”

 

Will smiles back to her.

 

“Yeah, deal.”

 

\-----

 

Just like Beverly promised, the dinner turns out to be a very private and relaxed affair: people greet him respectfully, he gets to know her parents and family, but no one bothers him and he's able to enjoy himself and be a good friend without having to try too much.

 

She looks like a star in her red and black dress, and Will puts all his efforts into smiling and being pleasant for her sake; and it goes better than he hoped it.

 

They spend most of the evening at their table, eating, drinking and talking; it doesn't feel very much different from when they meet to hang out. And the different setting seems to do him good; being removed from familiar surroundings and faces, allows him to focus on the small details of everything that is new, and distracts him enough to make him forget his anxiety.

 

He notices how warm the smile of Beverly's father is, how alike to her two sisters she looks; her mother comes to sit by him for a while when she goes to help the bride with something, and the woman's kind, but strong voice puts him at ease even while she grills him about their job.

 

No one asks him anything too personal, or if he and Bev are really just friends: and it's refreshing, because he's far too used to being constantly under scrutiny, to being analyzed and dissected like a lab rat. After a couple of hours of good food, drinking and relaxing company, his doubts about the evening seem to be forgotten.

 

It's so easy to open his mind here, to immerse himself in the simple lives of these people, who are so far away from the terrible things he sees inside his head every time he closes his eyes, from the monsters that haunt him.

 

And from the threatening presence that is Hannibal.

 

Sometimes he envies those who can live like this, because he'll never be able to: he was doomed from the very start, with a shadow hanging over him and covering him from head to toe; a shadow he'll never manage to break free from.

 

Beverly comes back and sits heavily next to him, pouring both of them a generous glass of wine; Will smiles for no reason at all.

 

“Just fyi: my mom thinks you're adorable, my dad and my brother are still neutral and both my sisters say you really need a make over, but that I should jump your bones anyway. Sadly, I'm not interested, no offence.”

 

He laughs, and watches her as she ties her hair in a ponytail.

 

“I seem to be making an impression. Not sure that's good or bad.”

 

“Well, look at the bright side! No one hated you!”

 

They eat and drink in silence for a while, making idle comments from time to time and laughing between themselves; Will considers calling Hannibal just to see how he's doing, even though there's probably no need for it.

 

A part of him misses his voice, while the other reminds him that he's finally getting some free time that's only his own and has no traces of him yet. And that he should keep it that way. It's so rare for both of them to be really and completely separated from the other.

 

In the end, he stays there in silence, looking at Beverly from time to time, trying to find something to say; and feeling a question pressing against his lips.

 

“Thank you again for inviting me. I think I really needed it.”

 

She nods in agreement.

 

“Yeah, you totally did.”

 

Will attempts a smile, but then bites his lips and clears his throat before speaking again.

 

“How's Jack doing?”

 

Beverly takes a long, deep breath and drinks some more wine before turning towards him to reply. He can see her eyes darken a little, like she's asking herself why he's bringing all this up.

 

“He just came back from a leave of absence he took so he and his wife could go to Switzerland for a new treatment. Seemed to have done a little bit of good to Mrs. Crawford. But, you know... she's dying and that's something nothing can change at this point. And work's always hard. So yeah, he's holding up, but not doing great.”

 

He nods, feeling himself buried under the weight of all the guilt he keeps locked inside his heart.

 

“At least Bella found some relief for a while, as ephemeral as that is going to be.”

 

Beverly doesn't say anything: Will remembers watching his father dying slowly and painfully in his hospital bed, and how much those rare moments of peace meant for both of them. Jack and his wife are both strong, but there's nothing to shield you from the pain of watching a loved one waste away because of an enemy neither of you can fight.

 

“Is he still holding a grudge against me?”

 

“I think he has far too much on his mind right now to be thinking about you, but... he hasn't mentioned you in a stern voice in a while. So I guess he's coming to terms with your absence.”

 

Will closes his eyes: his relationship with Jack was never easy, and now more than ever, it feels tainted, wrong; something went terribly wrong down the line and neither of them knows how to fix it.

 

He asks himself if it'd be even worth it: he has his secrets to protect, and getting closer to the man again could be dangerous.

 

Yet, his desire to help, to fix things and ease the guilt inside him is stronger than ever.

 

“Maybe I should call him, ask him how he and Bella are.”

 

Beverly stares at him for a long moment: and then she smiles, shaking her head a little, but with no trace of mocking in her gesture.

 

“Maybe, yeah. I doubt he'd just shut you off, to be honest. The last couple of months have been really tough on him. He could be happy to hear from you; or at least pretend to be. And if you think it'll make you feel better, go for it.”

 

“You think I'm doing it for my own reasons and not because I'm concerned?”

 

“I think you know what's good for you now: and leaving the field clearly was. But losing Jack's friendship? That wasn't; even though you both could be difficult to each other... it mattered. So if you wanna relink it, or try to, I say give it a shot.”

 

Will sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose: he tries to regain some of that inner peace he has felt before, focusing on his breaths and not on the storm in his mind.

 

“Sorry to keep dragging you into this; you're not supposed to care about any of it tonight. This is a special day for you and your family, and I'm just ruining it.”

 

She laughs again.

 

“Oh, shut up. We're friends, we help each other. And I'd love for things at work to be a little bit more relaxed, honestly.”

 

He smiles at her, grateful for her intelligence, her brilliance and her big heart.

 

“You're a great friend, Bev. And I know I'm not great at it, but... I care about you. So if you ever need anything... I'm here.”

 

Beverly nods solemnly, before getting up and offering him her hand.

 

“As a token of your appreciation for my amazing self, you should totally dance with me. You're not allowed to say no or complain! And, of course, I'll kill you and dissolve your body in acid if you step on my toes.”

 

Will casually thinks that there's nothing he did to deserve someone like her in his life; that he's probably unworthy of her friendship. But he doesn't want to think about any of that, not now, so he just smiles back and takes her hand.

 

\-----

 

“You were a surprisingly amazing plus one; I should take you out more often!”

 

Beverly looks tired and a little drunk, but the smile on her lips is still so bright that it infects him, and he reciprocates it even though he can feel his body heavy and exhausted.

 

“I'm glad I managed to be good company. You were pretty great yourself.”

 

She stretches as much as the car allows her too, then closes her eyes for a long moment before turning towards him: he feels uneasy under her scrutiny, because it feels like she's digging inside him to find all the answers to her questions.

 

“You promised me we'd sit down and talk one of these days; you're not allowed to back out of that.”

 

He nods, trying not to look nervous and relieved at the same time.

 

“I'm not going to; plus I'm really looking forward to cook for you again.”

 

She smiles, before collecting her things.

 

“And let me know how it goes, when and if you decide to talk to Jack.”

 

Will stays in the car alone and in silence for a long time after she's gone, his eyes on the mostly empty road in front of him: he tries to tell himself he needs to drive back to Wolf Trap, to his dogs, take a long shower and get some much needed sleep, but his muscles just don't respond.

 

He feels almost overwhelmed by the evening, burned out by it, but unable to shut down his thoughts; he sighs and abandons himself against his seat, like he's trying to hide and disappear. He doesn't want to go home and be alone with his ghosts and his guilt for the rest of the night.

 

And he knows far too well that there's only one person he can share his state of mind with: so, in the end, the decision just makes itself, and it's automatic for him to drive to Hannibal's.

 

It's raining hard and he has time to think during the ride: Will tries to imagine his conversations with Jack, all the different possible outcomes, but none of them goes well in his head, because it's a lot easier for him to be negative than hopeful.

 

And Jack is a difficult man to handle: no matter how much respect existed between them, they never really trusted each other, and clashing was inevitable, despite Will's old habit to avoid confrontation.

 

He wishes he could blame it all only on Hannibal, on his manipulations and lies; he turned them against each other to secure his grip on him, to be always sure he could direct the events.

 

Jack always trusted and believed Hannibal way more than him, kept pushing him until he was so close to breaking he could feel his skin tearing apart, but he knows the man thought he was doing his duty, that he was doing his job; and Will, in the end, made his own decisions, and no amount of manipulation can be blamed for them. He tries not to resent Jack for how he behaved with him, but he's far too skilled in the art of holding grunges and remember who hurt him and how.

 

After all, it's this ability that makes his relationship with Hannibal possible: he never forgets what the man is, what he did, and this keeps them aware of each other.

 

But this is different: there was always something left unsaid in his relationship with Jack, a difficulty in communicating that they never managed to overcome. He wonders if it's too late now: his wife is dying, the man must be a wreck and he wasn't there, he was dealing with his own kind of grieving for his old life. He couldn't help anyone else. He's not sure he wants or can do it now.

 

But something tells him he'll try anyway.

 

Will sighs when he arrives at the man's house: it's all dark, with no light coming from inside. Maybe he has already gone to bed; it's way past midnight after all.

 

He stays in the car for a few more minutes, in the silent darkness of the garage: his head feels so heavy, so full, and he just wants to stop tormenting himself like that; all the good mood from his relaxing evening seems to be a long lost memory.

 

As he walks through the dark and empty rooms, he imagines imaginary hands of ghosts and old nightmares getting a hold of him, touching him with skeletal fingers and making him shiver: that house still feels so foreign to him, a place where he never truly and fully belongs into when he's alone in it.

 

He finds Hannibal in his study, soft music playing in the background, and only the dim light of the fireplace illuminating the surroundings: his eyes are closed, and he doesn't notice his presence at first.

 

Will catches the glimpse of a weariness in his features that stops him in his tracks and forces him to stay there to observe the man for a while: no matter how well he knows what Hannibal could be capable of, how strong he is, he can't help noticing the moments where he looks tired and weaker. They're all part of him, and discovering all these different sides is like opening little windows inside of him and being finally able to look inside.

 

Will wonders what he's thinking about, wishes he could slip into his mind and cut open his brain like he does with the meat while he's cooking. Is this what Hannibal imagined to do to him? What he still imagines doing? It's at the same time a terrifying and attractive thought.

 

He swallows and enters the room, trying to be as quiet as he can: but the man opens his eyes right away, and sets them on him with a curious expression on his face.

 

“I was not expecting to see you tonight. Did your evening not go well?”

 

“It was great, actually; I had fun, Beverly was amazing as usual, but I just didn't feel like driving all the way home; you were closer, so here I am. Disappointed?”

 

The man smiles.

 

“Of seeing you? Never.”

 

They stare at each other without touching for a moment, before Will goes to sit on the desk and Hannibal reaches out to caress one of his thighs. His eyes shine in the darkness, reminding him that the predator is always there, waiting and watching, prepared to strike and maul him.

 

“You must be tired.”

 

“Yeah, I am. It was a long day.”

 

“And you smell far too much of other people and of their cigarettes. Quite dreadful.”

 

Will smiles and shakes his head.

 

“I'm not sure how to react to that; I'll just choose not to be offended by your comment. You look tired too, by the way. Maybe we should go to bed.”

 

Hannibal watches him intently, like he's trying to read all he did tonight on his face, gather it from the way he smells, from the state of his clothes: it's possessive, it feels like being skinned alive and exposed on an operating table. Will licks his lips and closes his eyes.

 

“Let me run you a bath; it will surely help you sleep better.”

 

“Will you help me wash as well?”

 

“If you want, I will.”

 

Will kisses him lightly, pulling at his hair and watching a satisfied grin appear on his lips: he wants to lick it off, but instead he nods, allowing Hannibal to touch him for a while before following him into the master bathroom.

 

Hot water is a blessing on his battered body: washes away all the weariness and the stress, leaving him pliant and relaxed; Hannibal is sitting behind him, looking uncharacteristically casual in his salmon shirt and black slacks. After so long, he's not shy anymore in front of him, and being naked doesn't bother him.

 

Will closes his eyes and allows the man to take care of him for a while; his mind flutters away, while he breathes in deeply the scents and oils around him, caressing his skin.

 

Hannibal's hands massage his shoulders and his arms, and he sighs.

 

“Sure you don't wanna get in too? It's so pleasant.”

 

“Perhaps another time; now focus on relaxing, let me do the rest.”

 

He wishes he could do just that, but sometimes he reads too much in every word and they sting, leaving marks and open wounds that burn even after so much time. Will doesn't look at him, but can feel his eyes fixated on the back of his neck and that makes him shiver.

 

“I want to try to patch things up with Jack, before his wife dies.”

 

Hannibal stops, but only for a second; he doesn't miss that hesitation, but doesn't comment on it. He waits for him to comment, his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“What brought you to this decision?”

 

“I asked Beverly how he's doing, and she told me things have been tough for him lately. Maybe I just want to do something about it if I can. Not sure what good that is going to do, but...”

 

“But you feel compelled to reach out to him, to try to help anyway. Perhaps this is only your guilt mixed with your need to fix things talking.”

 

Will laughs softly and then turns around to face him.

 

“It's amazing how much like you my inner voice is starting to sound. Not sure what to make of that.”

 

Hannibal's eyes are unreadable, matte and dark even in the brightly illuminated bathroom; he feels so small under that gaze, so he turns back around while the man starts washing his hair, fingering massaging his scalp and his curls.

 

“Do you think I should talk to him?”

 

“It is not my decision to make, is it? I know whatever I will say will only make you more determined to do what you want. You are stubborn like that, after all.”

 

He sighs; Hannibal has his own reasons of course, for wanting to keep him away from Jack. Maybe there's a part of him that still doesn't trust his decision to be with him, not to turn him in; in all truth, Will still considers it, because sometimes the weight of their secrets is too heavy and he wants to let them all go, to be free again.

 

“Are you worried about what I could do? What I could tell Jack about you?”

 

Hannibal replies by pulling at his hair hard enough to make him moan under his breath; it only lasts a second before the man lets him go. Will knows he probably should be frightened, because he's in such a vulnerable position, but there's nothing in that gesture that scares him.

 

He smiles instead, waiting in silence.

 

“Do I have reason to be? Or are you just trying to get a reaction out of me? We both know how much you enjoy doing that.”

 

Will says nothing for a long moment, then carefully pulls his head back and looks up to meet his eyes.

 

“Maybe you should ask yourself why it's so easy for me to get reactions out of you. You exposed too much of yourself to my eyes, Doctor Lecter.”

 

Hannibal's smile is tepid and followed only by a deep breath, before the man returns to wash his hair, forcing him to look away.

 

It takes him a long time to gather his thoughts and speak again, and he can feel the full weight of the man's eyes on him, the pressure of his hands on his skin; it's grounding, but controlling, like Hannibal is everywhere, trying to keep him down.

 

Will inhales deeply, knowing he'll give in to that part of him that has no self preservation and will go back to poke him as hard as he did before.

 

“What would you do if I tried to turn you in to Jack? Would you threaten me? Or worse?”

 

“We've had this conversation before.”

 

He closes his eyes for a moment, noticing his attempt to dodge the question.

 

“Yeah, but back then I was still incredibly angry at you for what you had done to me, still sick... and yet I protected your secrets anyway. If I did it now... I assume the betray would cut much deeper. So I wonder what you would do...”

 

Hannibal lets one of his hands slide over his throat, with no pressure applied, but with the hint of danger always hovering over it. Will shivers: the water is getting cooler and being so exposed and defenseless in this position is suddenly making him feel uneasy. He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath, his fingers ghosting over Hannibal's wrist.

 

“Are you trying to scare me?”

 

He doesn't reply, but doesn't remove his hand either, and they stay like that for a while in silence, while Will grows colder and the only sound around them are their mixed breaths.

 

Will puts his head back again and reaches out to touch his face, running a hand through his hair, eyes focused on his expression; Hannibal doesn't even move, but he keeps staring right at him, like he's trying to pierce through his flesh and cut him down.

 

“It would be very convenient to kill you here; I am sure the thought has not escaped you. I could choke you, drown you, or cut your throat: dispose of your body and no one would hear from you. No one would ever find you.”

 

“You promised you would eat me if you killed me... would you collect my blood?”

 

Hannibal kisses his shoulder, bites down with his fingers still around his throat, and for a moment, the pressure is stronger: not enough to cut off his air, but it still gives him a thrill that runs through his body and makes his skin prickle with the intensity of it. He wants to moan out loud, but closes his lips tight together to hold it in.

 

“You would be beautiful like that. Floating in your own blood, mortally pale because of the exsanguination. A true work of art.”

 

He can imagine it so vividly in his mind, like a movie playing behind his eyelids: he can smell the metallic flavor of the blood in his nostrils, has its taste in his mouth; he can almost feel it against his skin. Will licks his lips.

 

The man lets him go suddenly, and it takes Will a long moment to register it; Hannibal gets up and goes to kneel down where he can see him, staring into his eyes for a long time; he doesn't finch or look away.

 

They are both picturing his death so clearly, and it's such a powerful image that it leaves its trail behind: it sticks to their brain, clings to them and he feels overwhelmed by it, by how strong their connection is when it comes to the violence they can inflict on each other.

 

Will imagines himself killing Hannibal a thousand times, imagined being killed just as many, and it's telling that instead of making him feel sick to his stomach, they make him realize how deep the bond between them runs. He loves the idea of knowing exactly how terrible they can be for the other, how much hurt they can deliver; it reminds him who they are.

 

Hannibal would elevate his death into the most beautiful act he could commit; Will would channel all his rage and his desperation into killing him. They are so different and alike at the same time, and it gives him an odd sense of peace to understand and accepts this reality.

 

“How much you enjoy being reminded of what I could do to you, should honestly be distressing. Even to me.”

 

“But it's not, right? You think about killing me as much as I think about killing you. And probably just as much as you like thinking about our current life together.”

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“You are far too willing to blur those lines. More than you should be.”

 

Will falls quiet: there were never clear lines between them, no boundaries from the very start of their relationship; and Hannibal knows that far too well, because he fostered that climate to gain more and more power over him. But now he's too deeply under his skin, and losing control scares him.

 

Instead of enjoying his victory, all he wants to do is kiss him, tell him he's safe there: but those words would be meaningless for them; they'll never be really true, no matter how things between them will evolve.

 

“I'm not afraid of that.”

 

Hannibal smiles, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes; Will swallows nervously and then takes his hand for a moment, holding it lightly. The man sighs and they stay like that for a long moment, looking at each other and with that simple touch running between them.

 

It's only after a very long time that Hannibal lets him go and gets up.

 

“I will wait for you in the bedroom.”

 

Will dries himself quickly and puts on fresh clothes, feeling so tired he barely makes it back to the bedroom before joining Hannibal under the covers, his head on the man's shoulder and an arm across his chest.

 

Hannibal holds him close to him, breathing deeply in and out, inhaling his scent: his eyes are far away, but his hands are firmly on him.

 

“Sometimes I ask myself who is the most possessive between you and me. You know I want to possess you, how much I desire it. But you remain an enigma even to me. You could easily be rid of me, you should desperately want to after all I have done to you; yet you keep me closer than you should, you decide to share a life with me.”

 

Will kisses him for the first time that night, gently, trying not to apply too much pressure: there is always so much blood and violence running between them, but now he needs something different and gentler, capable of closing the gap between them, of quieting the noise that fills their heads and give them a moment of peace.

 

“It is not that I do not enjoy being possessed by you, to feel your ownership on my skin, its weight on my life; but I watch it change because of you, of your influence: and it frightens me as much as it excites me. I wanted to change you, to manipulate you into becoming what I wanted you to be. But I am afraid the opposite has happened.”

 

He takes a deep breath and then lets out a soft laugh.

 

“Do you believe I've changed you?”

 

“I think you have influenced me; I want to give you everything you want, to please you and this makes me willing to adapt myself to your desires. In what ways this is affecting or changing me... I think we may never know completely.”

 

Will observes the man lying next to him and sees at the same time a stranger and somebody he knows far too well: he sees the Ripper, the monster, and he knows it'll never disappear; because it's a far too rooted inside of him to disappear. But the part of him capable of doing such horrible things is mixed just as deeply with the quiet and almost loving man he shares his life with.

 

He wonders if he's aware of all the contradictions that live in him, in both of them: they'll never be normal, they'll never let go of their dark and twisted sides, but that doesn't stop them from wanting more of this too. Of this domesticity that binds them together.

 

“You told me never to delude myself, never to forget who you are.”

 

“Perhaps we are both still learning who we are when we are together; it's new for both of us. I look at you and I still see the darkness that draws me to you, but I have also come to appreciate your heart, your goodness. I don't want you to let go of them to become like me anymore. I want to help you learn to understand both sides of you.”

 

Will smiles.

 

“That might be the most honest and kindest thing you ever told me.”

 

Hannibal looks away, taking a deep breath. Will caresses his chest and kisses the curve of his neck.

 

“I don't forget what we are both capable of; I don't want to and I'll never do that. but I want to believe we can learn the rest together.”

 

“You are right of course; we have all the time in the world.”

 

Will tries to ignore how those words make him feel, the hopeful tone they hide. They both want so desperately to belong together, but the cost is so high sometimes he's scared of it, paralyzed by how much he wants it and is afraid of it at the same time.

 

They are so deeply destructive, so corrosive, but they can't stay away from each other.

 

“Would you read for me? I want to fall asleep listening to your voice.”

 

If Hannibal catches the tension in his voice, he says nothing about it: he just picks up a book and starts reading.


	9. sautéing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, apologies and more apologies for taking so long; but if you've been following me and my stories for a while, you know I'm the slowest writer of all time.  
> But I plan to at least try to finish this before s3 hits, because to be honest, I'm not sure I'll feel like writing then: I won't watch s3 and I'll try to avoid anything from it as much as I can, but I will inevitable hear something; I hope it won't be too disappointing.  
> Anyway, this chapter is long, so I'm sure it'll be entertaining.  
> I'm still very, very, very unhappy about my writing, and this chapter is not different: words just seem so hard to put together lately...  
> Leave me comments to tell me what you think! ^^

Alana smiles tiredly at him when she opens the door, hiding a yawn behind her hand as she moves away to let him in after some quick, and somehow awkward greetings; Will observes her as subtly as he can, trying not to be too invasive.

 

But he just can't help noticing that there's a shadow of weariness reflecting on her face that makes him frown, and scramble to find the right words to ask her about it. 

 

She's also wearing comfortable house clothes, probably planning to change later into something more appropriate for a dinner with guests; but this is unusual for someone who cares so much about her appearance as Alana.

 

He tries not to read too much into it. But she catches him observing her attentively, and sighs.

 

“Sorry for my clothes, I overslept; I woke up from a nap around twenty minutes ago, barely had time to wash my face and teeth a little before you arrived. I'll go put something better on.”

 

Will shakes his head.

 

“It's okay, really. You don't have to do it now on my account.”

 

“Abigail's not with you?”

 

Will shakes his head, as he takes off his jacket.

 

“She's running some errands: going to library, buying... whatever it is that she needs. I'll pick her up later when she's done. What about your partner?”

 

“Benjamin should be here in a few hours as well: his flight from Toronto was delayed; ugh, the snow has been a total nightmare up there.”

 

He smiles at her, trying to lighten the mood.

 

“I can imagine. Well, I look forward to meet him.”

 

The woman nods as she walks him towards the kitchen, chatting idly about the weather and about how Abigail has been doing lately, one hand caressing her belly protectively as he has seen her doing so many times.

 

Now the pregnancy is really evident, and Alana has already started to progressively reduce her workload at the Academy, anticipating the birth. But Will has the feeling that she's still very much working, since she prepares all the lessons for her replacement herself.

 

He can't imagine her being totally inactive: she'd get bored too quickly, but also can't ignore how she's been feeling; it must be frustrating for her.

 

“Did you bring all your tools? You could have saved yourself the trouble, really; I'm sure my kitchen can handle whatever dish you have in mind.”

 

Will snorts, suddenly distracted from his thoughts.

 

“It's more about my own habits and comforts than about your kitchen; I know it's great: I just prefer to use tools I know well and I'm used to work with.”

 

Alana nods vaguely.

 

“Then I won't say anything else about it.”

 

As soon as they're in the room, she sighs as she goes to sit down right away, while Will starts unpacking and settling all he needs on the table and the counter; Alana looks pale, even though the pregnancy gives her a beautiful glow and a shining in her eyes that speaks loudly about how happy she is about the prospect of being a mother.

 

He's not used to be so forthcoming with people, to interact with them like a normal person would: he never had to worry about this before, because there was nothing normal about his life. But now, that it's heading towards a comfortable peace, a routing made of new friendships and closer bonds, he has been trying so hard to fit into it and embrace this new reality.

 

But it's still hard with Alana: she's not Beverly, who fills in the blanks with her sarcasm, her irony and her comforting presence; Alana is different and he's still not sure he knows how to handle personal conversations with her. 

 

Every word that comes out of his mouth feels wrong, unnatural: like he's still trying too hard to be somebody he's not just for her sake, and that unpleasant feeling spreads inside him, clings to his skin. It's like an old muscle memory that he still hasn't forgot.

 

But Will pushes against it, tries to overcome it; he takes a deep breath and, only for a moment, he thinks about Hannibal.

 

“I know I'm gonna sound like a totally invasive jerk, but... are you okay? You... look a little tired.”

 

Alana makes a face, like she has just bitten into something sour, that lasts for a moment before she laughs it off and some color returns to her cheeks, as she relaxes.

 

“Well, I'm pregnant; it can be tiring, carrying a child and all that.”

 

Will snorts and nods vaguely; a parts of him wants to ignore the need he feels to ask more, but he gives in to it, even though just the gesture feels incredibly unnatural considering the two of them. They never knew much about each other, and, somehow, he almost prefers it that way: to be friends with Alana without having to dig too much.

 

But he sees something in her, a need to be pushed more and open up to someone that wins his resistance.

 

“Yeah, I know that. I was wondering if there was something else that bothered you; you don't have to tell me anything, of course: but I wanted to ask, at least.”

 

She smiles.

 

“And to think that once, you were the one who had to put up with all my questioning about your health: now you're all well adjusted and strong, while I'm the one who has to suffer them... I guess there's some kind of poetic justice in this turn of events! I'm fine, really; it's just... you know: some morning sickness, my back hurts, my ankles are swollen and I look like a balloon. But other than that I've never been better. More or less.”

 

Will sighs and adjusts his glasses, avoiding looking at her directly in the eyes, busying himself with preparations while he tries to find the right words to tell her. He's not sure she wants to hear something comforting from him, and probably he's really not the right person to do it anyway. But he's the one who's there and she opened up to, and silence would weight too much.

 

“You look very good, I think: I don't want to sound condescending or banal, but you really look beautiful; I'm sure my words will mean nothing to you, they won't change your perception of yourself at the moment. If you're not feeling well, maybe we should this another time?”

 

She smiles at him, more to thank him for his words than because she really feels like smiling, he can see it in the faint tension in her shoulders; Alana takes a deep breath and massages her temples for a moment, her eyes closed. 

 

Will waits in silence.

 

“No, I really want to do this; honestly a distraction is what I need right now. And Abigail's here, I don't want to miss her before she goes back to school. But now can we please move on from this? I don't want to bother you with my whining any further.”

 

He smiles to himself and nods.

 

“You're the hostess, the decision is yours. And you... don't bother me, ever. I'm trying to be a better friend to the people around me, and of course that includes you; so if you ever need anything...”

 

He trails off and makes a vague gesture with his hand, like he's honestly not sure how to continue, and hoping he's not sounding unbelievably cheesy.

 

Alana smiles again, with her usual kindness shining in her eyes; it used to have such a deep effect on him, and it still does, in a different way. Now it's more honest and sincere, not mixed with condescending pity.

 

“I know that. Thank you, Will.”

 

He nods awkwardly, as he shrugs away all his uneasiness and starts to position all the ingredients in front of him, focusing on his task and not on his thoughts.

 

Hannibal's image comes to his mind again: he does the same, dedicating himself to cooking completely, becoming blind to the world around him, even to Will sometimes, only to allow him to slip in and join him in his sanctuary when he's ready. He understands the need of that separation now, of that space between him and all the rest of the world; they're becoming more alike than Will should probably like.

 

“So, what are you going to make?”

 

“Boef bourgignon; I've been practicing it lately: but I tried to make it only twice before today; I hope it'll come out nicely. Also, I know it has some alcohol in it, but I looked it up online, and most of it should evaporate and not hurt your baby in any way. Buy I can make something else if you don't feel safe eating it.”

 

Alana shakes her head.

 

“I'm sure it'll be fine! Actually, my mother confessed me that she used to have a glass of wine every now and then while pregnant: I turned out pretty well, despite that! So I trust you, go for it.”

 

Will nods, then takes the ledger out of the bag and opens it at the selected page, going through it one more time even though he knows the recipe by heart already. There are small annotations Hannibal left, that he followed as well, trying not to think too much about the kind of meat the man used to use in his own version.

 

“My grandma used to make this, you know? For Sunday lunch: it filled the whole house with its scent. She was French, you know? Lived in Bourgogne, and had her own family recipe, handed down to her by her mother and so on. I have such a vivid memory of watching her cook it in her spotless, but cozy kitchen. Curious what specific childhood memories make the biggest impression on you.”

 

He smiles weakly, inhaling and trying not to look nervous because their conversation is hovering once again over personal parts of his life he can't bring himself to discuss with her: his childhood is one of those. The only person he ever discussed it with, it's Hannibal and a part of him wants it to stay this way: for him to be the only one able to know this side of him.

 

Will tries not to betray any of these feelings in his expression, to stay neutral, while he hopes Alana won't try to pry into his life.

 

“That sounds nice. And I hope my cooking won't disappoint you, since you're apparently such an expert on this dish.”

 

Alana sighs, but, probably catching the look in his eyes, she accepts the change of subject gracefully and without arguing. Will casually wonders how much of her current understanding and non-confrontational attitude stems from her realizing her past mistakes with him; if now she's more aware of her limits and of her weaknesses.

 

“I haven't eaten it since my grandma moved to America a few years ago to go live with my aunt; she says the ingredients are not right here! It'll be nice to try it again after so long. And I'm sure you'll do it justice.”

 

Will relaxes and smiles a little.

 

Once, he would have taken this opportunity to try to improve his chances with her, back when she was surrounded by a rosy and glowing light in his mind, wrapped in the fantasies he had made up about her, the possibilities he had seen. He liked to idealize her, to see in her all he lacked and desperately desired to have.

 

He still thinks she's a beautiful woman, just as attractive and charming as she was the first day he met her: but his vision of her changed, his feelings towards her became more and more different as he could see them for what they truly were.

 

An illusion, a childish dream.

 

And he understood that it was unfair of him to ask someone else to fix him, and that it was wrong of Alana to think she could.

 

This distant friendship, at least, it's more honest than whatever relationship between them could ever be. They know what they are to each other now; he likes to have her in his life, and this new clarity brought them closer: so in the end it was worth it.

 

Will shrugs after a moment, locking those thoughts away in the back of his mind.

 

“Well, let's hope so. We can always order takeout if I make a mess. You can go rest for a little, if you want; I'm sure I can manage here on my own...”

 

He's not sure if he's saying it because he genuinely worries about her, and he does, or more because he wants a moment alone with himself, away from any possible scrutiny. He chooses to believe it's the former.

 

But Alana shakes her head and gets up, groaning lightly and getting the ingredients out of the fridge with practiced efficiency: he knows she cooked with Hannibal many times and knows what to do, but that image is still hardly compatible with the professional woman he's used to know.

 

Will wonders how the two of them are when they are alone, if Hannibal flirted with her as openly as he does with everyone else: if they ever discussed him... He's so used to the all consuming relationship he has with him, that imagining Hannibal with other people is always hard and tainted by a pang of jealousy he's not proud of.

 

Because, especially with Alana, he shares sides of himself that Will ignores: and that leaves a bad taste in his mouth even though he tries to avoid it.

 

“Would you mind if I helped you? I'd rather keep myself busy than lie down on the couch like a vegetable.”

 

His thoughts clouded his mind for a moment, but he smiles nevertheless: Alana has nothing to do with him and Hannibal, and he should stop projecting their relationship on everything else.

 

Even though it's easier said than done.

 

“Let's get started, then.”

 

\-----

 

The atmosphere at Alana's is completely different from the one he manages to build in his own kitchen: he likes to cook in silence, with only the natural noises of his dogs in the background, and the familiar feeling he gets from the room lulling him while he works, wrapping him in a safe and comfortable cocoon. He can focus there, take his time and follow his planned schedule with ease.

 

Instead she seems to dislike how quiet the room is, and puts on some easy listening while attempting to make some small talk, asking him mostly about Abigail, keeping away from dangerous areas like their job or his relationship with Hannibal. He reciprocate her kindness as much as he can, especially at first: he's too concentrated on what he's doing anyway.

 

But how much she relaxes as time goes by, and she's more and more immersed in their task doesn't escape his notice: Will doesn't know her very well, not as much as he'd like to, but years of making a living out of understanding people and catching even the most subtle change in posture or mood tend to pay out.

 

And he can tell there are more reasons why she's so tense than just her being pregnant and tired; he wonders if he should ask again, trying to push her to give him a concrete answer and maybe, trying to help her in some way.

 

Hannibal would know what to do, he thinks, he could make her tell him everything with his skillful manipulations, with his ability to make people trust him even if they're reluctant to do it: but he's not him, and it's hard for him to put words together in these situations.

 

Will envies him sometimes; because he can fake so well, he can become such a completely different person in order to seduce and appeal who he's interacting with: it looks so easy, and even though he knows it's not, the subtle jealousy doesn't go away.

 

He sighs and asks about the baby girl Alana is expecting instead, hoping he'll find a way to get where he wants from there.

 

“So, have you decided the name yet?”

 

She grins, beautifully unaware of his thoughts: he envies her too, envies people who don't see as much as he does and can live a more comfortable life.

 

“Still a work in progress; you have no idea how many beautiful girl's names exist! Sometimes I wish I could use them all, but again that wouldn't be practical. My favorite one at the moment, it's Vera; but who knows how long that's gonna last!”

 

Will smiles at the image.

 

“It's a great name; will she have your last name? Cos Vera Bloom is very beautiful, I think.”

 

“Well, I'll have to consider that! How would you call your daughter if you had one?”

 

Will stops in his tracks, halfway through cutting more meat for the stew: he stares at the bloody pieces under his hands, at the knife he's holding, and then closes his eyes for a moment. He never considered having a family, his own child, because a part of him always knew it was an impossible dream for him.

 

But there's still that buried dream of him and Hannibal surrounded by children, that image he'll never tell anyone about. And he focuses on it for a moment, allowing his mind to wander.

 

“I always liked the name 'Aleksandra', don't really know why; but I think it'd be a good name for a child. At least, I like it.”

 

His words stroke the nerve left exposed by the pregnancy, and her feature soften beautifully as she smiles at him: Will takes a deep breath, wondering what Hannibal would say if he told him this, about his secret desire to have a family with him.

 

Neither of them ever had one, not really at least: who knows what scars it left inside of him that he still doesn't know about.

 

“Was it your mother's name?”

 

He shakes his head and makes a face at the mention, suddenly regretting getting into this conversation and exposing too much of his fucked up childhood to Alana's scrutiny: the problem is not her, it's the feeling of inadequacy and shame he never managed to shred completely, but that remained under his skin, poisoning him.

 

“No; her name was Eloise. But I doubt I'd use it for my daughter to be honest: I have no attachment to it or any desire to honor my mother like that.”

 

Alana lowers her eyes.

 

“It's a beautiful name, but, well... I understand why you would never use it for your own child. Her abandonment must've been devastating for you.”

 

Will lets out a coarse laugh, that scratches his throat and makes him wish they had never touched that subject: he doesn't want to talk about it with her, and his skin already feels too thin and transparent on his bones, giving him the sick feeling that everyone could be able to read his secrets right from his insides; and he has way too many.

 

So he does what he does best: he deflects.

 

“Abandonment requires expectations; and a two years old child doesn't have many of those. ”

 

Alana says nothing; she might not know much about his personal life, but is perspective enough to have her own theories about him. He tries to smile to make her understand that she didn't bother him with her question, but has no idea if he managed it or not.

 

She goes back to her task, while Will remains quiet, locked in his thoughts with his mind wandering away from the present time.

 

He remembers saying those exact words to Hannibal once, standing in the middle of his office and looking up to him while he was going through his books up on the mezzanine: his feelings and the meaning of his words had been different then, coming from a much more exposed and easy to hit nerve, opposed to the deep and buried one that is his mother.

 

Hannibal understood him so well and won his trust so easily back then, with his reassurance, his helpful presence and his well meaning attitude, hiding the fact that he was carefully manipulating him into mistrusting Jack and drifting away from him, that Will barely noticed.

 

And now there's a gaping pit between them that Will isn't sure can be filled up and repaired. He wishes he could only blame Hannibal for it, but Jack and he were a time bomb, too different to be able to really bond and trust each other, to let go of their natural distrust and skepticism.

 

Jack never really understood him or tried to too much to really manage to: he needed Will to do his job, cared about him in his own way, but for him that was not enough; in the end, they were going to explode one way or another.

 

And yet Will still wants to reach out to him, to comfort him because he's losing the most important person in his life and he wants to be there for Jack when it'll inevitably happen.

 

Probably for the same reason why he didn't turn Hannibal in: because he has this need to help that he could never shred.

 

“Sorry I asked you about your mother, I didn't mean to pry.”

 

His train of thoughts is interrupted by her voice and he realizes how absent he must have looked, giving her the wrong impression. He tries to relax and get back to prepare the food.

 

“Don't worry; it's fine, really. There isn't much to say about that after all.”

 

Will hears her sigh: he wonders what she'd say about his desire to relink with Jack, if she'd agree with Hannibal or him. He remembers the possessive look in the man's eyes, the hand around his neck; and it still sends a thrill through him.

 

“Did you ever try to find her? Or know if she attempted to contact you in anyway?”

 

Will remembers a childhood spent being too busy trying to deal with his father and their constant moving around to also confront his mother's absence; it's something he only really started to do as adult. And it brought up those few times where he lied awake in the dark as a child, after a fight with his dad, imagining his mother suddenly coming back to take him away to a better life, holding him close like she never did in reality, telling him she loved him so very much and was never going to leave him again.

 

Hannibal had smiled at him when Will told him this, looking away and feeling stupid because of it; he didn't say anything, merely held him close for the rest of the night.

 

“No; I thought about it for a while, to use my police contacts, but... I dropped it all in the end: I just didn't know what to tell her if I ever found her, you know? There is... this wall between us, a wall she created and that it's not my job to bring down. I'm not sure how I would react if she contacted me today... I'm not sure I'd still care.”

 

Alana takes a deep breath at that; he's far too used to be pitied by her not to tense immediately, even though he tries not to make it too evident: he lowers his eyes and goes to tend to the pot on the fire for a moment, adding more ingredients slowly, inhaling the delicious scent that comes up from it.

 

“Sorry about all these questions; I must be in that phase where listening to tales of horrible parents terrifies me and motivates me to try to be as much of a good mother as I can. But I shouldn't use your trauma as a cautionary tale; that's wrong of me. Let's just forget this...”

 

Will sighs and then smiles at her: he's so used to dedicate his thoughts to the unusual, that they always tend to drift so far away from normal thoughts and doubts, and it's hard to see the bridge between those two sides sometimes.

 

He finds Hannibal and his secrets easier to deal with: but when he's confronted with something like this, he's suddenly at loss.

 

“You don't need cautionary tales: I'm sure you'll be a great mother.”

 

He tries to make it sound sincere, instead of sterile and banal: her smile in return is encouraging, but the world still feel alien and insipid in his mouth. It's ironic how hard these interactions still are for him, no matter his progresses. They always leave him tired to his bones.

 

“Thank you for saying that, but I don't need reassurances and I don't want you to feel like you must comfort me just because I'm pregnant and emotional because of it: it's natural, I think, to be afraid of something so big and difficult as parenthood. I am afraid I'll end up failing my daughter, disappoint her or even hurt her... But maybe these feelings will help motivating me! And of course, having good friends like you.”

 

Will wants to believe that to be true, that he's being a good friend and trying to build a good support structure around him; but sometimes he feels so removed from the people in his life who are not Hannibal or Abigail, because they are so far away from him he struggles to see them in the right perspective and to keep them close.

 

But he has no one to say that to, because no one would understand; and he doesn't want to dwell on those thoughts, not when he's supposed to be doing something normal for once.

 

“I know you don't need reassurances and that all your doubts are perfectly normal: but still... I want you to know that I truly believe you'll be a great mother and that your daughter will have a wonderful childhood. You can do whatever you want with my words.”

 

She smiles and relaxes.

 

“Thank you, Will. I'll save them for a bad day.”

 

He smiles at Alana and goes back to cooking.

 

\-----

 

Alana makes them both a warm cup of herbal tea while the stew is left to simmer on its own in the kitchen: the dying sunlight colors her living room in warm and rosy colors, that reflect on her skin and her hair. Will always loved sunset as a child, because it meant finally going home, away from social interactions that he could never master and the weight they left on him.

 

He could lock himself up in his room, read a book, listen to music to chase away the noises of the outside world and finally relax; he looks outside for a while, sighing as he sips his coffee. 

 

Alana says nothing for a while, but steals little glances at him from time to time, like she's about to speak out, but then chances her mind and returns to her silence.

 

“If there's something you need to be doing, go ahead; the stew needs to simmer for a few hours anyway and you really don't need to 'entertain' me! Seriously, I wouldn't be offended.”

 

She smiles and shakes her head.

 

“There's nothing that needs doing right now, and we never really get a chance to talk! Especially lately, for obvious reasons... I was just wondering if what I asked you earlier upset you; you look a little absent.”

 

“I was just remembering past things, nothing important. And you didn't upset me: I'm just not used to talk about my mother so openly, that's all. But I understand why you brought it up: becoming a parent must be incredible and terrifying; I can't even imagine... you don't have to apologize for anything.”

 

There's a brief pause, where Alana stares at him like she's debating with herself what to say next and how to get to the subject that really interests her without forcing him to clamp down on his secrets and thoughts. She probably doesn't even realize how transparent she is to him, how her emotions appear perfectly reflected on her face.

 

“Well, I'm glad to hear that; there's already been way too much awkwardness between us in the past, I'd rather leave it behind... But there is something else eating you, isn't it? You don't have to tell me what it is, of course; but if you wanted to, I'd be happy to listen. Just so you know this, Will.”

 

He nods vaguely, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second: the air around them is so incredibly still, with the scents coming from the kitchen hanging in it, and the afternoon light illuminating it with a golden touch.

 

There's a part of him that doesn't want to break this frail moment of tranquility, because his life has so few of those, and they're usually tied to Hannibal, who's at the same time the person who understands him more than anyone else and tries to give him everything he needs, but who also left the deepest cuts inside of him.

 

Will wants to allow himself that, to relax and forget all that has been going on in his life lately; but of course, he just can't.

 

It's hard to turn your brain off, when thoughts press against your skull and words pile in your mouth heavy like rocks, and it becomes too hard to swallow them back inside you.

 

“Beverly told me Jack's wife is getting worse.”

 

Alana frowns lightly at the mention of Jack; it's an instinctive reaction he noticed in her from the very beginning: while she respects him in some way, she never truly managed to like him and she's put off by his sudden presence in their conversation.

 

“Yes, it's very sad. Bella is an amazing woman; I wish I had more chances to get to know her better. It's a tragedy when such a great person leaves us way too soon; we can tell even if they're almost strangers to us.”

 

“I never met her; I saw pictures of her, heard Jack talk about her, but... we were never introduced. But it must be hard for him; I can only imagine how that must be like.”

 

She sighs and pours herself more tea, sipping it slowly while staring outside the window: her house is not nearly as isolated as his is, but the outside world feels so far away nevertheless, like they are along in the universe, suspended in a great emptiness.

 

“Did Jack come to you to beg you to go back to work for him using his wife's illness to guilty trip you? Rationally I know he'll never do that, but I guess I'm preparing myself for the worse anyway.”

 

“We haven't been on speaking terms for nearly two months, since the last time he managed to trick me into helping him using Beverly.”

 

Will pauses for a second, and Alana catches his hesitation right away, with a long deep breath that speaks volume of her opinions already; he tries to brace himself, but the hint of a smile slips through his lips.

 

“And yet you're considering relinking a relationship with him, right?”

 

Will finds no reasons to lie to her, so he simply nods, bracing himself against the disapproving look, that inevitably appears on her face, closing his eyes for a split second. 

 

Alana doesn't understand his gesture, of course, or why he's bringing up Jack, but from the fact that she's not rising her voice and treating him in a condescending way, he can tell that she's at least trying.

 

“May I ask why?”

 

“Because... his wife is dying, and he doesn't have many other people in his life: it's going to devastate him in the worst possible way. I know he also has you and Hannibal, his job, his colleagues at the Bureau; but... I guess I just can't resist it, this pull I feel that almost forces me to try to help people, no matter what they did to me or if I hold a grunge against them.”

 

Alana stares at him for a long moment, her hands clasped on her belly and caressing it gently.

 

“I'm sure you know you don't owe him anything after all you went through while you were working for him.”

 

Will wishes it could be as simple as it seems to be for her to define what happened during the previous year: there are still holes and gaps even in his memory, where his fever episodes should be, and inside him there's a turmoil that no amount of self examination and reflection managed to clarify so far.

 

Alana is blessed with a beautiful kind of clarity in her life that he still misses, and doubts he'll ever reach. Because it comes from her being oblivious and he'll never be that ever again.

 

Hannibal comes to his mind again, wrapped in the secrets they both share: he's the darkness that surrounded him and removed him from the world he knew, that almost destroyed him and that changed his life forever. It all moved so fast, with Will struggling to keep up and hold the broken pieces of himself together, patching them up together with his sanity.

 

He smiles at her, then gets up to help her taking their mugs back to the kitchen and checks on the stew, stirring it attentively; while he tries to ignore the piercing look in Alana's eyes that follow all his movements, waiting for him to stop trying to avoid confrontation.

 

Will takes a deep breath, inhaling the air around him: he looks up and catches her eyes, and they both laugh off the subtle tension that was building between them because of this sudden turn in their discussion.

 

He remembers a time where this kind of familiarity and friendship with Alana would've been impossible for him, and he's glad for this turn of events, even though he can see the veil between himself and everything else around him.

 

"Once I told Hannibal that you two have in common this incredible ability to change the subject that's almost supernatural. I wonder how you do it."

 

“You were right: we tend to do that... Guess it comes with a natural diffidence for the rest of the world: deflecting comes far too natural when you're used to feel constantly under scrutiny; you build forts to protect yourself.”

 

Alana nods and doesn't comment on his words: he can't help wanting to know what she's thinking about, how she's elaborating what he just said. He feels eternally cut off from the natural flow of human emotions and relations, like he can see everything through a glass, but almost never interact with it.

 

Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes: he listens to his own heartbeat pumping in his ears, to Alana's soft breathing and to the silence around them.

 

“I know I don't owe Jack anything. But he's unfinished business, something I never managed to solve and make my peace with. And I feel genuinely sorry for him, for what he's been going through. If I can help him and at the same time work out the issues between them... maybe I should try.”

 

Her smile in response is gentle and understanding: he knows on this they're surprisingly alike, because compartmentalize is not one of their strong points, and they always end up getting untangled in something unhealthy for them.

 

“What did Hannibal say?”

 

“That it's my decision in the end: he hates the idea, I know it, even though won't explicitly say so; but we both know we can't fight on this, it would be pointless.”

 

“I might disagree with the idea on principle, because I still think you're better off far away from Jack. He's a good man, he's dedicated and loyal and wants to do the right thing; but his brand of authority is bad for you. But if you want to try to patch things up with him... I think you should: for him, because he's going to need all of us to recover, and for you, because you clearly want to solve the issues you have with him. It's probably for the best.”

 

Will smiles.

 

“I thought we were going to have a long and complicated conversation about this!”

 

She laughs in response to his words, then strokes her belly again lovingly.

 

“You seem to have your mind pretty made up about what to do, and it wouldn't be fair of me to argue about something so personal for you like this: you're the only one who can decide what's good for you what isn't. I'll respect your decision, I'll be here for you if you needed me. Just... be careful: don't let him drag you back into this job.”

 

Her words somehow sound distant to him: he appreciates them, believes her wholly, but at the same time, it feels like they wash over him without leaving a trace. She's right: helping Jack will drag him back to a past time where his life was completely out of control and he was struggling to even understand what was real and what wasn't.

 

It'll take more time to decide what to do, if he's ready for that or not; Will sighs.

 

“I'll be careful, don't worry.”

 

But he's not sure that's the truth: he's never careful in anything in his life, and his relationship with Hannibal is the proof of this; he always dances on the edge of complete destruction, hoping to survive his subtle instinct of self destruction another day.

 

\-----

 

“I'll be back in about an hour, two at max. Are you sure you don't mind it if I leave you here alone?”

 

Will shakes his head and smiles understandingly to Alana, who's busy putting on her coat and checking her purse for everything she might need.

 

“Don't worry about it; I'll keep myself busy making dessert and making sure the stew doesn't burn.”

 

The call from work came suddenly, right after the end of their discussion about him and Jack, and it took a lot of coaxing to convince Alana to quickly leave to bring there the papers her replacement suddenly realized she needed. The woman looks understandably annoyed, but is far too professional to allow that to get in the way.

 

“I'm really sorry about this... God, you know what? I'll just call and say I can't make it: I can't leave you here all on your own, it's so rude.”

 

He laughs softly. She worries about formalities and manners like Hannibal, and in such a similar way Will can't help noticing his imprint in her at strange times: it reminds him how much influence the man has on their lives. He's not sure how that makes him feel.

 

“Go, Alana; you'll be back before I'll have time to notice you're gone. It's just fine.”

 

She takes a deep breath and, once again, like it's a lucky charm that gives her strength and courage at all times, she caresses her belly and then nods.

 

“Fine, I'll go. I'll be as quick as I can.”

 

Will walks her to the car and makes sure she's comfortable and organized enough.

 

“Drive safely and don't worry about me.”

 

The house is incredible quiet without her in it, and feels so foreign and unknown to him: he stares at the empty room for a few minutes collecting his thoughts and feelings, before going back to the kitchen to keep himself busy while she's gone.

 

He considers calling Abigail to ask her if he can go and pick her up, but decides against it in the end: making dessert occupies him anyway, and soon he feels much more comfortable, even though the silence continues to be unnerving.

 

While he's baking the two pies he planned to prepare for the dinner, Will thinks about his conversation with Alana: despite her ignorance that makes it impossible for her to fully understand how the real situation is for him, and what truly stops him from trying to patch things up with Jack, her insights were still precious to him.

 

Will knows she's right when she says he can't allow himself to be dragged back once again into the mess that's working for the FBI, that that environment is far too toxic for him and so is Jack's overwhelming presence. He needs his own spaces and his peace of mind to belong only to him and no one else.

 

But Jack needs him, and he feels strong enough to handle this now, with his sanity and equilibrium restored. He can only hope he's right.

 

Hannibal's voice resounds in his ears, telling him that he needs to be careful in his decision: his care is very much dictated by self preservation and by his need to keep Will only for himself, especially when it comes to Jack Crawford and the power he has on Will despite everything.

 

But he wants to believe there's a part of him who truly worries about him in a selfless way he can barely imagine coming from him, but that could still exist, even more than Hannibal probably realizes. And he's probably a complete fool for still entertaining these illusions about him despite all the man did to him and what Will knows he's capable of.

 

He's far too hopeful and too willing to see good in him: it's probably the reason why he keeps his secrets.

 

Once the pies are safely in the oven and the stew has been controlled again to make sure nothing is burning or going wrong, Will suddenly finds himself at loss, with nothing to do and a foreign house stretching out around him, that makes him feel trapped and watched.

 

He sits on the couch for a while, checking his phone from time to time while trying to escape that feeling of inadequacy and loneliness that it's starting to creep inside of him: he wishes Alana would hurry up and come back, lifting this unwelcoming atmosphere off of him and keep his mind occupied. 

 

Instead he's left in this unfamiliar room, where he feels exposed, like there's something hidden in the walls that keeps staring back at him, stalking his every move. He sighs loudly and nothing but silence answers him: he's used to being alone in his house in the middle of nowhere, with his dogs as his only company; after all, he even enjoys it, it's how he built his whole life in Virginia, on the safety and refuge his house represents for him. 

 

Loneliness doesn't scare him and never did since he was a child and understood the meaning of it: but this is different.

 

This isn't loneliness, exactly: it's knowledge trapped in every atom in the room and attempting to fill him with memories and feelings that don't belong to him, but that he's drawn to absorb nevertheless.

 

In every corner, he can feel the subtle hints of Alana's life: reflected in the pictures she keeps framed on her fireplace, in the design of the rooms, in the very foundations of the house; everything smells like her, and if Will allowed himself to do it, he could just close his eyes and read everything he ever needed to know about her from the details that surround him.

 

But it feels wrong, like a violation of her trust: and so Will decides to bottle down his anxiety and gets up, locking himself into the bathroom for a while, like he used to do as a kid during his friends' party; he could never fit there, was always the new boy no one really liked and tried to avoid.

 

Will washes his face a couple of times, breathing in deeply: it doesn't make him feel much better, but it's a start. He sits on the side of the bathtub, staring at nothing for a while.

 

He needs something to fill the silence, a voice to guide him back to the present time and chase away his dark thoughts.

 

Calling Hannibal feels almost natural, because no matter what, the man is still the one who can anchor him and make him feel firmly himself once again, that reminds him who he is and what is solid and real.

 

He used to hear the man's voice in his head while he was still sick, after he found out the truth, and remembers how terrifying it had been at first especially: Hannibal was like an infection, something nasty, rotting, corrupting him from the inside and that he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he tried.

 

Will remembers the nights he spent awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, with his words filling his head and suffocating him with their weight; it took him a long time to accept that there was also a comfort there, a feeling of being always linked to the only person who really understood him.

 

He sighs and abandons those memories.

 

The whole situation of him sitting in Alana's bathroom while calling Hannibal, doesn't escape Will, who smiles to himself about how completely ridiculous, undignified and almost pathetic this is: yet he carries on, because his need of him firmly outweighs everything else.

 

"I thought you were supposed to be at Alana's today, to cook for your dinner."

 

He laughs softly at how apparently unemotional his voice sounds, while he tries to conceal his surprise. Hannibal's attempts to always maintain his self control no matter what, are always endearing.

 

"I am; but she had to go out for a sudden work call, and since I was bored, I thought hearing from you could help me pass the time."

 

Will can see his grin perfectly if he closes his eyes, because he knows him so well by now, that he can anticipate some of his reactions perfectly.

 

"Well, I am glad you did; and I am always glad to be the first person on your list of people to call in case of boredom. Is Abigail not with you?"

 

"I'll go pick her up in a while, as soon as Alana's back. She had her own things to do. What were you up to?"

 

“I felt the sudden need to reorganize my collection of cooking books in a more practical way, and I ended up rediscovering gems I had not opened in a while. I will make sure to share them with you, if you want.”

 

He smiles softly to himself and relaxes against the wall behind him, taking slow and deep breaths: he feels a little better already, calmer and less suffocated by the anxiety that gripped him earlier while he was alone.

 

“I'd like that, yeah. It'd be interesting.”

 

“How are your current preparations going?”

 

Will sighs.

 

“Well, I think. I should go check on the stew and the pies soon... but right now I'm kind of hiding in one of the bathrooms, because the house felt way too quiet and unsettling. You're allowed to laugh at me, by the way: I think I deserve it in this case.”

 

Hannibal says nothing for a while, but Will can tell he became suddenly incredibly interested in his current state of mind. They may have struck an appearance of peace and domesticity, but they're still always trying to catch any weakness in the other anyway.

 

“It is an interesting image to picture, I must say: one I will surely treasure.”

 

He laughs, breaking the tension for a moment.

 

“Of course you will, you bastard. And you'll make sure to bring it up when it suits you, right?”

 

“You would do just the same to me; you cannot deny that.”

 

Will doesn't reply: Alana's house is so silent around him, and the only sound comes from so far away from where he is now, that the gap makes it hard for him to decide which topic to focus on: he wishes he could see Hannibal's face, can picture him in his casual white shirt while working in his study, a strand of hair falling on his forehead and a younger appearance to his features that brings out the shining in his eyes.

 

It's so clear in his mind, he can see him like this as if it was happening right in front of him: and the thought is comforting.

 

“How is Alana? Did you find her well?”

 

“She looked a little tired, but I guess that's normal. But yeah, she's good, even helped me cooking a little. And we had a chance to talk with calm, not something we usually do, so that was great too.”

 

“Should I be jealous?”

 

Will laughs at Hannibal's evident reference to the conversation they had a while back: he never loses a chance to try to put him out of his depth when he gets it.

 

“The fact that you're the one bringing it up now, makes me think you might already be, but don't want to admit it. Even though you should know perfectly well that you don't have to, because there's no reason for that.”

 

“Well, that is a relief. I will not comment on your other insinuations, but I am glad to hear from you that you two are on good terms now. Cultivating friendship seems to have become very important to you.”

 

He holds his breath for a second: Hannibal's voice has a cold streak that bothers him for some reason, like he's subtly mocking him for his attempts to have normal relationships outside their own, despite the fact that the man himself has several of those and that he has been mostly supportive of him lately.

 

Will asks himself if their conversation about Jack and his desire to repair their relationship it's the reason why he's behaving like this now, why there's a hint of venom in his words: it's petty, and yet absolutely plausible for a man like Hannibal, who's far too used to get exactly what he wants and how he wants it to respond well to his stubbornness.

 

People like Alana or Beverly don't threaten him and his position in Will's life: despite his past attraction to Alana and how close to Bev he is, there's still a distance between him and them that it's impossible to fill up; they don't hold a significant power over him that could make Will change his mind.

 

Jack is different: for so long Will responded to his authority, his commands and his style of leadership so well he forgot himself and nearly lost his health and sanity in order to follow his orders and please him.

 

He appealed to Will's biggest weakness: his desire to help others to make his own existence worthy and important. He told Hannibal once that saving lives felt so good he was willing to let himself fall apart to keep doing it: that it wasn't only the idea of stopping bad people that kept hm going, but also helping the victims.

 

Hannibal understood it far too well, used it against him a few times: but never as well as Jack could, though the man was probably just as self destructive as Will. He wanted to help people and catch killers so bad, no price they could pay looked high enough when compared to it.

 

Will sighs and closes his eyes.

 

“Like you said, I desperately try to find shreds of normalcy in our lives, to build little corners of peace...”

 

“And I think it's very good for you.”

 

He bites his lips for a second, before speaking again.

 

“Even when it comes to Jack? Do you think that patching things up with him will be good for me too?”

 

Hannibal, of course, falls silent for a long moment, and Will feels that tension he knows far too well, creep inside of him once again.

 

Touching certain topic it's always a hazard, because possession for them is a complicated concept: it's wanting to keep their independence, mixed with the all consuming desires of being the only person to truly matter in the other's life. 

 

Will understands how and how much Hannibal wants him well enough to analyze his reactions: he wants to be the first and last thing Will thinks about every day, the constant presence in his life that never leaves him. 

 

But how he wants to possess Hannibal, that's something he still hasn't quite figured out yet.

 

"It is not my place to decide that, nor could I presume to imagine how having him again in your life could impact you: you are the only person who can."

 

"That's what Alana said; I told her I wanted to try to speak to Jack again. She wasn't very happy about it, but was supportive enough."

 

There's a brief pause before Hannibal continues, and Will tries to wonder what thoughts just passed through his mind.

 

"What did she tell you?"

 

"That I don't owe Jack anything, that he did enough damages to me to make sure of that; but that Bella's illness is being terrible for him. And that in the end it's my decision, if I want to reach out to him and offer my help. I could tell she wanted to say a lot more, but after all that happened... I'm not sure she felt comfortable doing it."

 

"She was probably surprised you had even decided to open up to her like that: you are not very forthcoming, even with the people you consider your friends. You are far too used to rely only on yourself and your own strength."

 

Will hints a smile.

 

"Except with you, right? Even before I knew the truth, I always trusted you more than anybody else in my life: and that gave you power over me, over my fears and my hopes."

 

"And now, after all this time, being honest with each other seems to be the only way we can make this work. Even when we keep our secrets, we are aware of them: now we share that power."

 

And yet a part of him wonders what Hannibal's secrets really are, and wishes he could cut him open to expose them. He's not entirely sure he wants to know, because the fear of discovering something that could destroy their balance is paralyzing.

 

He sighs and says nothing for a while. It's Hannibal who does, taking their conversation back on Jack.

 

“Alana once again seems to have given you wise advices: the choice is only yours.”

 

“And yet, you still hope to influence me to meet your desires. You tell me I'm the one in control, that I have the same power you have... but every time I mention Jack, you subtly try to manipulate me into abandoning the idea.”

 

Will hears Hannibal take a deep breath, and hold it for a moment before releasing it.

 

“I seem to be failing then. Because I am sure you have already decided to do things your way, and once you have taken a position, it is impossible to make you change your mind. I know that far too well: despite all my intrusions, all my manipulation, you remain utterly unpredictable. I could never influence you.”

 

“Because you didn't manage to make me a killer?”

 

Hannibal thinks on his words for a while: Will chooses to imagine him smiling in the half dark of his study or in the blinding sunlight of the kitchen, sitting comfortably, but with his mind far away from there and entirely focused on him.

 

They had similar conversations before, with Hannibal whispering into his ear his most secret dreams of them killing together, of seeing Will with blood on his face and under his nails, happily joining him. They are illusions, because they both know it could never happen.

 

It's already very hard for him to bend his moral sense to his needs, he could never go any further.

 

But just like Will can sometimes close his eyes and imagine the two of them as a normal couple with no secrets and no darkness, with no painful memories, he supposes he can allow the other man his fantasies.

 

“Like I said, no matter what I say or do... you are very hard to manipulate. You accommodate parts on me into your life, you adjust yourself: but you don't let me change the core of who you are. And I suppose that is fair, since it is the same for me. Parts of us change, but not who we are.”

 

Will bites his lips: they have come a long way from their first meeting in Jack's office, and sometimes it's hard to understand how they evolved together, how all they went through impacted them.

 

“There's so much you could persuade me to do... you always could. I wasn't used to trust people, yet I trusted you. Just because I would never kill with you, it doesn't mean you could never influence me the way you want to.”

 

Their life together is constantly battling between what they want and what they need to do to stay together and not to explode: because they're like chemical elements who could start a destructive reactions if allowed to. Will sometimes is truly scared of how fiercely he'd defend him, of how much he trusts him even though Hannibal is a monster, and all of this just because he's the one person in his life who sees him, who understands him.

 

Hannibal likes to downplay himself, to pretend to be small, nonthreatening, only a peripheral presence of little importance: but he knows the truth. He sees his hands in some of his choices, in how he looks at the world now.

 

He can only wonder if Hannibal feels the same, if his inner voice sounds like Will now.

 

“You seem to have way more influence on me lately than I have on you: I respond to all your desires far more than you do to mine; and sometimes I am not entirely sure you understand the weight of this in full.”

 

Will smiles to himself.

 

“Yeah, I know. Sometimes I think about what I could make you do. And if you'd do what I asked, simply because you want to please me.”

 

“Oh, I am sure you have so interesting ideas. Anything specific?”

 

Hannibal sounds more relaxed and amused now, which is probably a good sign: Will closes his eyes and can forget their previous conversation, how ridiculous they must look like this, with him still hiding in the bathroom to escape the suffocating feeling of an empty house and the man's voice as his only companion.

 

I could ask you never to kill again, to swear you'll never hurt another person; the thought, of course, is there and so are the words that hang on his lips and almost beg him to be pronounced. He can't imagine what Hannibal would reply to that, after all he said before about it being his choice alone.

 

He feels like such a hypocrite for wishing he could use his influence to manipulate Hannibal like that, and, at the same time, like a fool because he doesn't and knows he'll never be capable of that. Will wants Hannibal to change for him at his own terms, because it's what he wants, not just to please him.

 

It's unbelievably stupid to trust him so much; he got used to it by now.

 

"I'm not sure: all the ideas I'm getting right now are amazingly stupid, to be honest."

 

Hannibal laughs quietly.

 

"Now I'm even more intrigued: please continue."

 

Will tries to picture something harmless, but funny enough to justify their conversation without revealing his true thoughts or having to discuss them; maybe Hannibal insisted because he caught some distress in his voice.

 

He always feels naked and exposed in front of him, his body dissected and analyzed by his eyes.

 

“What if I asked you to receive your guests naked? Or to serve junk food at a dinner party?”

 

Hannibal makes a very audible sound of displeasure that make Will genuinely laugh out loud. Poking him and making him uncomfortable enough to make him break his composure is always entertaining for him.

 

“I honestly cannot imagine what you could possibly gain from my humiliation.”

 

“Nothing; but it's funny to imagine it.”

 

He hears Hannibal inhale deeply, like he's actually busy considering his requests; and for some reasons, the thought makes Will relax once again.

 

“So? Would you do that if I asked? Would you humiliate yourself for me?”

 

The silence that follows is deep and heavy on both of them; it doesn't make Will regret his question, but it's still not easy to swallow.

 

But sometimes they need to redefine the boundaries between them, the edges of their relationship: and it's better they do it over something trivial and innocent than over more serious matters.

 

Hannibal is capable of holding his silence for hours if he needs to, because he'd never expose himself without at least some form of protection, not even with him: and his words are his most powerful defense. His voice is like a spell, that fills his head and follows him everywhere he goes.

 

“Sometimes I have the impression I constantly do that, in some ways. Truth be told, I am not sure I would go to such length in order to please you; but I would try to accommodate you, yes. You would know how to convince me to do far worse things, I am sure.”

 

Will smiles tiredly: it's not easy to decide if Hannibal is being honest or if he's just feeding him the words he thinks he wants to hear. He's so used to lies, that he can believe in them so perfectly, it becomes impossible to tell the difference. 

 

He sighs.

 

“It's your turn now.”

 

“My turn?”

 

“To ask me something ridiculous and see if I would do it or not.”

 

Hannibal sighs and he can hear the hint of an indulgent smile in it; just like those he used to see on his face during their therapy sessions: a welcoming and warm look, something that inspired trust, but that hid his true motivations behind a reassuring facade. 

 

“I have no interest in that, Will.”

 

He rolls his eyes, laughing softly at his refusal, because of course he would try to wriggle away from their conversation; and wonders if Hannibal is imagining his exact reaction as well as he's able to imagine his.

 

“Oh, come on. Don't be such a bore; it's fun.”

 

“You and I may have different definitions of 'fun'; I am sure the thought has not escaped you.”

 

Will takes a deep breath: he's not even sure why he's pressing this topic, why it's suddenly so important for him that Hannibal plays along; it's all so stupid, so ridiculous. But maybe that's the reason why this matters so much: every word, every hint, even those that apparently are meaningless, help him understand him better.

 

Every phrase has its own weight, nothing is able to simply slide over them without leaving a trace or a mark.

 

“Please, don't make me beg. Indulge me.”

 

Hannibal takes his time, of course, giving Will once again enough time to analyze how absurd this scene must look: he's still hiding in a bathroom, in the house of a woman he used to fantasize about, talking on the phone to the man that nearly ruined his life.

 

A bitter laugh escapes his lips, but Hannibal doesn't ask him anything about it: for some reason, he doesn't feel ashamed, not exactly. Somehow, even this situation fits how crazy their lives are; it's not even the worst thing they've been through together.

 

“I'm sorry, nothing worth of consideration comes to my mind.”

 

He expected this answer: he wonders if Hannibal is toying with him, forcing him to expose himself while he keeps his thoughts safely hidden, without exposing himself.

 

“You're really no fun; you could've asked me... I don't know... to ruin this dinner or to take naked pictures here in Alana's house and then send them to you! So many possibilities.”

 

“That would be unbelievably rude: and you know discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

 

Will laughs softly again, his whole mind sorely focused on replying to him: their games can be exhausting, long and difficult; but it's a thrill that never fails to excite him, because in those moment they truly see each other, they connect on such an intimate and complete level that all their parts are left exposed. And the taste of it is intoxicating.

 

“So you don't consider rude meddling with my decision to patch things up with Jack? And by the way, we all know the point isn't really what I ask you to do or what you ask: it's if we would actually do it and how far we'd be willing to go. Everything else is irrelevant.”

 

He can almost hear Hannibal's smile in the way he inhales, in the brief pause that follows: all the words that flow between them are potential weapons, knives they could use to hurt each other, or a balm on their wounds, depending on their intentions.

 

It's exhausting sometimes, to constantly tip toe on the edge of destruction: yet they can't seem to stop.

 

"Then I find it interesting that you need to find a way around what you really want to ask: you settle for these harmless questions instead. Are you that afraid of my possible answers?"

 

"Yeah, sometimes I am. It'd be useless to hide it, because you already know. There's so much I could make you do for me, so much I would do for you; and just the idea of going there, of actually saying those words and make them a reality, something that could actually happen... it's terrifying. I could ask you to kill for me, knowingly this time, without hiding behind any excuse; would you do it?"

 

"Oh, Will: I'm sure you know that would be one of the easiest things you could ask me to do."

 

"But you can't know if I would do the same for you; in fact, I most likely won't. And there was a time when you would've done anything to make me like you, to force me to accept the part of me that's as okay with murder as you are. Now... things are so different. Sometimes I'm not sure how to deal with it."

 

Hannibal internalizes his words slowly, leaving him hanging in silence once again: Will is starting to feel tired, locked in that tiny space, surrounded by a life that isn't is, and handling a discussion that feels way too big and heavy to have in this way. He feels stupid, his words are like ashes in his mouth and it doesn't feel like they're really going anywhere: they're just exposing new darker corners of themselves, dwelling on questions that can't have definitive answers.

 

Will sighs and he hears Hannibal do the same in return.

 

"I have the impression, sometimes, that you might be more possessive of me than I am of you: you see me change to accommodate you in my life and you want to control that, to have this transformation take the direction you want. But at the same time, you're afraid to ask me direct questions, because you're not sure what my answers could be. You know me better than anyone else, you see me in ways no one ever saw me before: yet, you're still afraid of this knowledge, and of taking it further to see what it actually could reveal to you."

 

It's hard to hear those words, because he knows they're true: he can see his insecurities reflected in them, the secret fears he wouldn't reveal to anyone, not even Hannibal. He closes his eyes for a moment, and all the question he'd never be brave enough to ask flash in front of him, burning bright behind his eyelids like stars about to explode.

 

He bites his lips and, once again, tries to deflect, even though he knows Hannibal will see right through his trick.

 

“And what about you? Are you ever afraid of asking me something because you don't know how I would react? Because what I could say scares you?”

 

“Of course I am: even with all my knowledge of you, you remain unpredictable. And that terrifies me more than you know, Will.”

 

Will laughs softly, with just a hint of bitterness in it.

 

“We're such a mess: it's a miracle we manage to keep it all together.”

 

“But is it worth it in the end? That's the question that truly matters between us.”

 

He thinks about it for a second: he imagines all the lives he could've had, the normal relationships that he dreamed of, but that couldn't become a reality, not even without Hannibal. Sometimes he's painfully aware that being with him, it's the best chance he has to gain some sort of happiness within himself that nobody else could ever give him: it's sad, because Hannibal is who he is and will remain so despite his changes.

 

And he should hate him, should despise him and want to see him punished for him crimes: instead, Will loves him and nothing will ever change this.

 

“Yeah, it is worth it.”

 

In his mind, he can see Hannibal'd proud smile, his barely hinted nod: he doesn't reply, but Will understands him anyway. This is one of those moments where they are so intimately linked, they can read inside each other and understand what they're thinking incredibly easily.

 

“Well, I am glad you feel the same as I do.”

 

Will feels the deep need to light up the mood of their conversation, but for one moment more, he enjoys the silence around them; and it's such a comfortable, reassuring one.

 

One that, at least for a moment, doesn't hide monsters, lies and secrets. He wishes he could see Hannibal, that he could wrap his arms around him and hold him close. He managed to see more of him and to uncover new parts of his soul; and that's worth more than anything.

 

But now, everything feels too heavy, too big to be fitted between them: they need space, and time alone to process what just happened between them, to fit all the pieces together and make sense of them.

 

It's Hannibal who breaks the tension first, in the end, bringing up their previous exchange.

 

“Would you really get naked for me there, if I asked?”

 

Will laughs out loud, his voice echoing in the room around him. And suddenly, he's able to breathe easily once again.

 

“So you have been considering it?”

 

“Passingly; but it is a compelling image. Would you do it?”

 

He takes a deep breath: it'd be hard to look Alana in the eyes if he did that, but the idea is incredibly seductive; it's low and debased, something Hannibal wouldn't have considered by himself. And it only gives him a bigger and stronger sense of power, to see how he can bend and influence him.

 

“I'm not sure, to be honest. You'll never know if you don't ask.”

 

The man probably can see right through his intentions and his subtle manipulations: it makes Will smile at the idea.

 

“Then I'm asking; do it: take off your clothes and then send me a picture.”

 

“And what will I get in return? I think I'd deserve a reward.”

 

He's quiet again for a moment, and Will can almost see him frowning and thinking.

 

“We can discuss it over dinner tomorrow night.”

 

Hannibal ends the conversation like that, without even saying goodbye, leaving Will alone with his thoughts, with a task he's not sure he's brave and shameless enough to complete and with the residues of their conversation still clinging to his skin and to his mind.

 

He needs to go back to cooking before Alana returns: so he has to decide quickly if he wants to follow through with his teasing or not. He doesn't regret giving Hannibal that idea or putting all this into motion with his words: but for a few minutes he keeps sitting there, not making any move one way or another.

 

Will stares at the ceiling, takes long and deep breaths, and tries to make his choice.

 

He gets up quickly, moving with slow precision, but not slow enough he'd have time to change his mind: his heart is racing in his chest and the more he thinks about what he's doing, less he finds any sense in it.

 

But, at the same time, he doesn't want to back out of it, not now when this one simple bet he has with Hannibal has managed to gain so much meaning for both of them.

 

Will doesn't get completely naked, because he just doesn't have enough time and because he wants to keep a faint shred of dignity: but he unfastens his pants and unbuttons his shirt, lying back against the wall and taking a long, deep breath before finally mastering up the courage to take the picture.

 

His hand is shaking while he does it, and his face is half hidden, but he snaps them quickly before his brain can catch up with his body and stop him: just doing that, such an incredibly unusual thing for him, is enough to make his blood pump loudly in his ear and a thrill of pleasure run along his spine.

 

Will is not sure anymore who really is in control now, after he sends the pictures and has to take a couple of minutes to calm down: if it's him, the one who had the idea in the first place and managed to put it in Hannibal's mind; or Hannibal, who could persuade him to do it.

 

It's a perfect summary of their relationship, probably: they're so busy trying to influence each other, that they can't even understand who does it the most in the end. In a sense, it's the most normal they'll even get: it's a back and forth, with nobody being really in control of the other; it's not healthy, but it works for them.

 

Slowly, he rearranges his clothes and goes to wash his hands, trying to ignore the flush on his cheeks and the embarrassment that is starting to creep inside of him now that the adrenaline is gone.

 

There's so much silence around him once again; so he rushes to the kitchen to keep himself busy.

 

Hannibal calls him while he's taking the pies out of the oven to cool down: he feels mildly anxious about it, but answer anyway.

 

"I was not sure you were really going to do it."

 

Will laughs nervously.

 

"Well, me neither to be honest."

 

"It's almost scary how much we can influence each other, isn't it? And how difficult it is to make sense of our manipulations."

 

He nods even though Hannibal can't see him; but he's sure he's imagining this conversation as if it were happening right in front of his eyes.

 

"I guess it means we're truly on equal ground now. Are you going to keep that picture?"

 

Hannibal makes an amused sound.

 

"Oh yes: how could I ever even think of parting from it; but don't worry, I will do you the kindness of never showing it to anyone else. Especially to Alana, who probably would be less than thrilled to know what happened in her house while she was away."

 

He feels ashamed about it once again, and groans, rolling his eyes about how much Hannibal is probably enjoying the situation.

 

"Well, thanks for that. Now I need to think about what I could make you do..."

 

"And I am sure you'll have fun doing it."

 

Yeah, I will, he thinks not knowing exactly what to do with that idea.

 

\-----

 

“Are you nervous about tonight?”

 

Will glances at Abigail for a second, who's sitting beside him in the car: she's wearing one of the dresses they bought together the last time she visited him, and looks beautiful in it, even while frowning at him.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

She shrugs.

 

“You just look a little absent, that's all. If it's because of the dinner, you should try to relax. It'll go well.”

 

Will smiles at her, then goes back to focus on driving.

 

“I'm sure it will; but I'm not nervous because of it: I just have a lot of thoughts on my mind, too much to worry about. Don't think about it.”

 

Abigail hums in agreement, but doesn't stop staring at him. He never manages to hide his feelings from her completely, because by now she knows him so well she can understand him with one look, stripping him of his defenses and probing him until he tells her what's going on.

 

“Does it have something to do with Hannibal?”

 

He nods, because there's no point in lying, but of course has no intention of telling her exactly what happened. He takes a deep breath.

 

“Kind of; but I don't want to think about that tonight. We should try to have fun and enjoy the evening.”

 

"So you say; even though the look on your face tells a different story. But oh well: if you don't wanna talk about it tonight, it's fine by me."

 

He says nothing at that: the memories of what he and Hannibal did only a few hours ago is still fresh in his mind, still raw on his skin and it's hard to even think about it without feeling a flush creep on his cheeks. He feels so stupid, like a teenager who brought a girl in his parents' bedroom and now has a lingering feeling of shame hanging over him like a shroud.

 

Maybe Hannibal is feeling the same, but he doubts it'd have the same intensity: but the thought brings him some comfort. And he wishes he could somehow know it for sure, slip inside him and see what his thoughts are, reading him like an open book.

 

"Are you curious about meeting Alana's partner?"

 

"A little; he must be an interesting man. Let's hope so."

 

Abigail smiles a little, and then looks outside the car window for a few minutes, allowing the silence between them to be filled by the easy listening that comes from the radio. He wonders what she's thinking about, if she's jumping from topic to topic on purpose to keep him interested and not deep in his mind.

 

"Won't it be awkward to meet him, though? Considering you two used to be into each other and all that?"

 

Will groans in displeasure and Abigail echoes it with a soft laugh: she enjoys poking him and knows exactly how to do it. He shakes his head, but a smile creeps on his lips and he can feel himself finally relax.

 

"It was a long time ago and it never got anywhere in the first place; plus they're having a child together, so I think he could hardly see me as a threat to their relationship."

 

Abigail vaguely nods.

 

"You're right, probably. But, in any case, you brought me along, so I'll make sure to try to smoother any kind of tension."

 

"Alana insisted, not me: she wants to try to get closer to you again, in a better way. And you should let her: becoming a mother is a big thing for her, she's going through a lot; we should help her, if we can. And it could be fun to have a different kind of evening for once: we rarely get to meet new people."

 

Her smile is bright and understanding, though Will can still see some of her old resistance in her eyes, her fierce protection of herself against the rest of the world. Abigail grew up, she changed a lot during the last year, but her traumas are still fresh on her skin and in her mind, and it's hard for her to be as trusting as a girl her age should be.

 

He catches a glimpse of the scar on her neck, and old memories flood his mind as well: they have so much baggage; it's hard to let it all go.

 

But at least, they're both trying.

 

“Okay; let's try to do that and see how it goes.”

 

She doesn't sound completely convinced, but he'll take what he can get from her.

 

In the end, Benjamin proves himself to be a way more pleasant man than he had imagined him to be: he's tall, loud, smiles a lot and speaks with a heavy French accent that reminds Will of Louisiana in some way, of the days he used to spend listening to his neighbors' Creole accent .

 

When he vaguely mentions it, to keep the conversation going, Benjamin engages him in a long discussion about him and his origins that lasts way into their dinner. And Will finds himself smiling and talking with an ease he didn't think he could master so fast with a complete stranger. He's not completely comfortable, but he puts on his most welcoming expression and tries to pretend he is.

 

He catches Alana's smile, the happy look on her face, and understands it: Benjamin is a man that doesn't need saving, who's not damaged good, ready to fall apart and that she'll have to put back together. A man who won't wake up in the middle of the night shaking and drenched in sweat after a nightmare, who doesn't live with unspeakable horrors inside his head.

 

He's normal, he's healthy: Alana deserves it. Will used to think often about what could have happened between them, if things had been different: but he would have had to be different too, and he can't imagine himself in any other way. Maybe it's sad that the person who made him come to terms with who he is, it's Hannibal.

 

But maybe there's also some kind of poetic justice in it: Hannibal took away his clarity and sanity for a while, trying to mold him to follow his desires; and then Will took it all back, forcing Hannibal to change for him in the process.

 

“The food is amazing, Will! You did a great job, thank you so much.”

 

Will smiles at Alana and lowers his eyes for a moment: he keeps receiving compliments for his cooking, and the pride he feels is so intense, he can't help relating it to Hannibal, imagining if this is what he feels as well.

 

“Well, I'm glad you all like it.”

 

Will loses himself in his thoughts for a few minutes, but Abigail is stealing the scene anyway in her blue dress, her witty comments and her crystalline voice echoing around them: she's beautiful, and he stares at her with admiration in his eyes, because she's so capable of slipping into a different suit, pretends so well and with such an ease that should scare him. But instead, he's proud of her.

 

He sighs heavily, but thankfully no one notices him, and he just sneaks back into the kitchen to fill up the plates again. In that silence, with only muffled sounds coming back to him. Sadly, this means he has time to think, and his brain is still too full and too overwhelmed to cope with new thoughts; yet they come anyway.

 

And a part of him wonder if it's finally time to consider cooking for Hannibal, to show him the skills he acquired in the last few months: it would be so intimate, like opening a new door in their relationship and revealing a new side of himself to him, the side that wants to get closer to him, that wants to understand how he feels.

 

Will already understands him more now, can see the world better through his eyes: but this will be so different; because Hannibal always took pride in feeding him, into being the one who provides for him. And changing that, even if only for one time for now, it's an incredibly seductive thought for him, something that makes electricity creep under his skin.

 

He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning against the counter a breathing slowly in and out: the kitchen is filled with the scent of the food he prepared and inhaling the same scents in Hannibal's house is going to be much deeper and stronger for him.

 

It's amazing how much even the smallest things can become incredibly important for them: because everything they do is heavy and charged, and holds the weight of their past together, of what they went through and what they survived.

 

Will sighs, but he doesn't know if he wishes things could be easier for them, if he longs for a normal life like the one Alana has now, or if by now he's so used to his life with Hannibal and to navigate it as well as he can manage, that he could never imagine living differently.

 

In a passing thought, he wonders what would happen if he ever met someone who he could have a chance to be happy with in a normal and safe way, free from the constant manipulation he experience with him. But it's not something he can think about now, because he has no time to dwell on himself in peace: there's so much to do, he can occupy his thoughts with that.

 

Benjamin, who insists Will calls him Ben, to establish some kind of familiarity he allows even though he's not entirely okay with it, takes up all his attention again when he finds out about his passion for fishing; he smiles brightly and talks in a fast and excited tone that makes his whole face light up, bringing out the green in his eyes. He's very handsome, in a reassuring and effortless way. 

 

He can wear casual clothes and still appear confident and sure of himself, perfectly as ease in every situation: instead of being jealous of it, he's oddly attracted. He had experiences with men before Hannibal, and they all had the same look: reliable, understanding and solid. He sees the way Alana looks at him and understands her perfectly, smiles at her when she catches his eyes.

 

Hannibal, in a sense, follows the same pattern, at least on the surface: but it's the monster lurking behind the surface, and the damage he sees reflected in the depth of his soul what really keeps them together; they're broken people and the traumas they share and those they have inflicted on each other is what makes their relationship different.

 

"We should go fishing together once! What do you say, Alana? That would be great, wouldn't it?"

 

Alana caresses Ben's arm and smiles at him with a glimmer in her blue eyes that she never had while looking at him, and was never going to have. Will sips some of his wine and smiles, feeling an odd kind of calm inside of him.

 

"Well, if Will agrees, I think it's be nice if you two became friends."

 

He nods vaguely.

 

"Yeah, sure. I'll show you all the best spots around here. It'd be nice to do something different for once."

 

Abigail rises her eyebrows, but says nothing; and Will is surprised when he realizes that he really means what he just said: he thinks about Hannibal telling him that friendship is becoming more and more important for him, and it almost feels like he's trying to fulfill old needs that he disregarded for years and that only now are coming to the surface.

 

Hannibal would sit him down in his study, with a glass of wine in his hand and a reassuring smile on his lips: he'd look at Will and say, in his best honey coated voice, "how does it make you feel?". And even now, Will would pour his heart out to him, would tell him everything, because that would help him make sense of his feelings.

 

Even after all the pain he cause him, he remains his paddle.

 

Abigail joins him in the kitchen while he's preparing the dessert for serving, and hugs him from behind, pressing her cheek against his back. Will closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath: he caresses her small hand, gently touches her wrist and allows her to hold him close; it comforts him, while there's a storm in his mind and sometimes his thoughts are so loud he feels like drowning in them.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

"Yeah, I am. It's okay; we'll go home soon and relax a little. Today has just been really heavy for me."

 

She nods, and for a moment they stay in silence.

 

"I like Ben; I think he's good for her. And she deserves it."

 

His voice comes out in a soft whisper and he feels almost pathetic about it, but he couldn't stop those words from coming out. Abigail behind him sighs.

 

"Better than what you could've been?"

 

"That's not that hard."

 

Abigail lets him go and goes to kiss him on the cheek: he wants to hug her, hold her even closer and allow the soothing presence of her body next to his to chase away the demons he has in his heart. But nothing can do that, except finally resolving the issues he has with Hannibal lately and that have been lurking in the corners ever since that night when the man held a knife to his throat and talked about tearing him apart and consuming him.

 

They can see Alana and Ben from the kitchen, talking and smiling to each other like any normal couple would. Abigail holds his hand.

 

"They look beautiful; I think about it sometimes, a normal family... but it feels like a dream to me, something evanescent... I'm not sure I'd want that. Do you ever wish you could have it? Would you be happy if you could?"

 

Will takes a deep breath, but he doesn't have to think about his answer: it has been inside him for the whole evening. He just smiles.

 

"In a sense, I think I'm happy already as I am now, with him, even though it's hard sometimes. And that's all I really need."

 

Abigail laughs softly; and then helps him taking the plates in the living room, with a smile still on her lips.


	10. a fuoco lento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo here we are at the last chapter of "gourmand"! For length issues it has been split in two parts, but the second part is nearly done, so you'll not have to wait long to read it.  
> I truly hope this chapter will be a good ending to this story.  
> Please, please, please let me know what you think of it!

“Are you sure you don't want me to help you in any way?”

 

There's a nearly petulant note in Hannibal's voice that makes Will look up and smile to him while he's finishing emptying his bag and settling the ingredients for their dinner on the counter. 

 

The man moves around him almost restlessly, which is so unusual for him; because, normally, he's as phlegmatic as they come: he's never this nervous, he doesn't hover above him like he's doing now, determined to see all he's doing to keep it under his scrutiny, like he's afraid things could escape his control if he got distracted.

 

It's unsettling to see him like this, but also oddly satisfying to know he's the cause of it: but it's the reason why he's behaving like this that still eludes Will, because of all the things that could worry him, Will taking up cooking should not even be on the list; but he has hope tonight will help him understand.

 

“I told you already: I'm just fine on my own. Plus, I want you to relax and let me do all the work; to let me... take care of you, for tonight at least.”

 

He tries to sound vaguely seductive, hoping to distract him, and it does seem to work for a second, because the man smiles at him.

 

But then the soft grin disappears, and Hannibal takes a very long and deep breath, before getting closer to him, so close their bodies almost touch: very gently, he takes Will's wrist in his hand, but doesn't clamp down on it; he just stays like that for a second, until Will can feel him relax.

 

“May I at least know what are we going to eat?”

 

Will smiles at him, running the tips of his fingers on his cheek, barely touching the skin, before freeing himself from his grip, and dig into the bag one last time to produce two small menus; Hannibal seems genuinely impressed by his new attention to details and looks at him for a long moment like he can't believe how much the tables have turned tonight.

 

He's usually the one who wastes so much time on every little thing, who doesn't leave anything to chance and polishes every detail until he's sure everything is perfect: Will is not distracted or shabby, but has much lower expectations and needs. While Hannibal needs to constantly perform and enchant an audience, even if it's just an imaginary one, he's contented with just being at easy with himself, surrounded by simple things. 

 

Will wonders how that must feel for him, to see how much he has adapted to his lifestyle. It took him a whole week to prepare everything, and while he was choosing the plates, the dishes, having the menus printed and decided on every possible decoration, he felt so much like Hannibal in ways he never had before.

 

It felt like he was becoming him, in a sense: a version of Hannibal as seen through his eyes.

 

“An interesting selection of dishes, I must say: I am impressed.”

 

Will laughs quietly, putting on his usual self deprecating smile without really intending to; Hannibal frowns lightly.

 

“Wait until you eat the food to say that!”

 

Hannibal makes a displeased face at the tone of his voice, then closes his eyes for a moment and takes a few long, deep breaths. Will watches him, fascinated by his body language, by the subtle tension that runs through it; he can't understand why he's being like this and the desire to hug him and hold him close, to tell him that everything is okay, is nearly as strong and devastating as his need to shout at him to tell him what's wrong.

 

He doesn't do either of those things: he just stands there, staring at him, at the barely noticeable grip of his hand on the paper, at the way his eyes pierce right through him when he opens them again, making him squirm under their weight.

 

They had long discussions about this evening before settling on a precise date: it was like the man was trying to avoid it for as long as possible without him noticing. But Will, of course, is perspective and used to read into him enough to know.

 

And this new anxiety just adds itself to the one he's already feeling.

 

“Don't underestimate your own skills: I am certain everything will be delicious.”

 

Will takes a deep breath and takes a step further, getting into his personal space once again, so close he can smell Hannibal's expensive cologne.

 

“If you say you're so trusting about my skills and okay with this dinner, then it almost makes me want to ask you why you're so tense... I'm not sure it'd like the answer though, or that you'll even give me one.”

 

Hannibal smiles indulgently, acknowledging his cleverness with that simple gesture.

 

“Perhaps you're seeing something that isn't really there...”

 

Will laughs, shaking his head: he's deflecting in the same way he would do it, changing the topic and the focus of their conversation; they're too alike, and by now they know all their tricks. 

 

“Maybe, yeah: but, either way... we should talk tonight.”

 

The man brings him close to kiss him, holding him and running a hand on his back in slow rubbing motions; Will allows it, melts into the kiss and grips his shoulder, like he's afraid he'd lose balance if he stopped doing that. The kiss is short and nearly too chase for his taste, but he doesn't complain.

 

Hannibal stays like this for a moment more, their foreheads touching: he wishes he could just push forward and ask more, force him to talk to him, to be honest with him. But there's so much to do and he can't think about that now: he needs a clear head and a firm hand; doubts will have to be addressed later.

 

“Did you catch the fish yourself?”

 

Will breathes against his lips and laughs softly.

 

“Of course I did: woke up early this morning and went out fishing...”

 

Hannibal nods, and he catches an almost sinister light in his eyes, like he's at the same time honored by his gesture, but also strangely bothered by it, and for reasons Will can't seem to understand yet, but that only make him more nervous and wary of what he's hiding. The man smiles at him.

 

"Very fitting of the situation, I think: you truly are providing for me tonight, hunting our dinner yourself and then preparing it with the skills you have acquired in the last few months. I am sure the parallel has not escaped you; though your version is certainly... less violent."

 

Will nods vaguely, feeling almost hypnotized by the sparkle in his eyes, and by the way the light reflecting in them makes them look almost red. He gulps, but doesn't look away.

 

Hannibal seems to be so calm on the outside, and Will always wonders how he does it even though he's clearly troubled: he's too used to wear his heart on his sleeve, to show his feelings too much and too violently to be able to do that; he envies him, but at the same time he's scared of it, because he can never understand what's going on with him.

 

Once, he used to believe Hannibal Lecter had nothing to hide, that he was the most transparent and honest man he knew: how much things have changed since then... Will sighs when the man kisses him again, first on the lips, then on his neck, pressing right on his pulse point.

 

It's intimate, but suffocating at the same time and he almost feels like he can't breathe; so he doesn't resist when the man pulls away, caressing his cheek one last time.

 

“I will leave you to your work then; I will be in my study in case you need me.”

 

Will watches him leave in silence, and after he's gone, he stays still for a moment, standing in the middle of the room and trying to force himself to begin his work: he has so much to do and only a few hours to do it all and do it perfectly.

 

He won't allow anything to be out of place or to go wrong; but instead of getting started, he leans against the counter, slowly breathing in and out and feeling the residues of the conversation still on his skin.

 

Hannibal felt different, distant in a way he had never been before: there was a coldness in him that he never felt directed at him, not like this at least. It's unsettling, because he has no idea what to do about it, how to change it, how to reach out to him and find out what's wrong.

 

It's like they're playing a game, but Will is being forced to guess all the rules without any help from him, and it's frustrating, way more than having to deal with his fears about the fact that Hannibal might be killing again, or unveiling his lies and secrets.

 

He doesn't know what to do, and that's never a good thing when it comes to the two of them; he sighs, feeling already tired, but deciding he has to pull through and get things done.

 

And the first thing Will decides to start with, it's setting the table: he uses Hannibal's finest china, silverware and glasses, trying to do a little bit of decoration with some fresh flowers he went to buy after coming back from fishing and that he has no idea how to use correctly to make them look best. He feels stupid and clumsy, like he's completely out of his depth, but still insists on swimming forward. And at this point, he can't back down.

 

He considers using some candles, wondering if that would be too much, but then decides to get them anyway, because after all, Hannibal himself is not above using these cheesy details to impress him even more. It's all very simple, because that's how he is: he's not one for ostentation, for these kind of excesses; but it looks well enough to leave him satisfied in the end, so he can't really complain.

 

Before going back to the kitchen, he puts the menus on the plates, smiling to himself.

 

Next, he makes a thick carrot soup with potatoes and spices, stirring it slowly and inhaling its delicious scent: he was right, cooking in Hannibal's kitchen is a completely new experience that intimidates and excites him at the same time.

 

He knows the room well enough to know exactly where to find everything he needs, but this is Hannibal's reign, where his throne would be if he had one: and now Will is occupying it, taking it over and working using his own, personal rules. It gives him an incredible sense of power that tastes sweet in his mouth.

 

Now that he thinks about it, so many important moments took place right there in this room. It seems to him that his trust in Hannibal has been forged in the food the man makes for him, and this specific place has seen so many of those times: they can stay there and talk for hours over tea and pastries, Will can observe the man while he cooks, he can open up to him about his past...

 

That is a powerful room: and Will wants to use that power as much as he can; the problem is that he still doesn't know what to do with that, what he wants to accomplish.

 

It all goes back to the thoughts he had while talking to him on the phone in Alana's bathroom: this could be the perfect setting to ask him to promise him he'll stop killing, that he'll never hurt anyone else ever again. But then, once again, doubts creep inside of him, tearing at his insides and making him afraid of every word that might come out of his mouth.

 

He's still not sure how many strains the tightrope they're walking on together can take before it breaks, leaving them both to fall into the unknown.

 

With an irritated gesture, Will tries to focus on cooking again, to fill up his mind: he makes small appetizers of slices of prosciutto crudo curled around bite size pieces of melon, with a side of an Italian cheese he can't pronounce to be served with honey. He already prepares the salad, and settles the appetizers in a decently nice composition.

 

He feels a little calmer after that, because cooking is starting to becoming almost therapeutic for him: his hands are steady, and he feels confident enough to move to the main course. Even though he doesn't need it, because the recipe is incredibly simple, he still opens the cooking book on the counter. He caresses the old and worn out cover, the yellowed pages and faintly discolored words almost with love.

 

This is a bridge between him and Hannibal's past, a simple thing that helped him understand so much, that gave him so many new insights on him and his inner world: he's going to give it back to him tonight; he's sure the gesture will mean something important for both of them. Hannibal gave it to him to prove he could come to terms with Will's independence and accept it: now he's returning it to close the circle.

 

Will guts and cleans the two trouts with quick and precise gestures, almost without thinking about what he's doing, because he's so used to that by now, after a whole life spent doing it almost every day, especially when he was a child and used to catch fishes so he and his father could eat something better than cheap take outs and stale leftovers. 

 

They used to do that together, his dad and him: with Will standing on the boat his old man was busy fixing at the moment, a fishing rod in his hands: then his father would help him cleaning the still struggling animal, and he remembers how fascinated he had been, even though sometimes the sight would repulse him.

 

Even now, for one second, because of a trick of the light, it almost looks like the two animals are still breathing, squirming on the cut board even though Will's hands are already drenched in their blood and entrails; it sends a chill down his spine, making him sweat a little because of the brutality of the association: he imagines himself gutted and ready to be cooked for a moment, wondering how having Hannibl's teeth into his flesh would feel like.

 

Would he really let him do that without fighting back? It's a question he's been asking himself more and more lately, and that still has no definitive answer: but that leaves a morbid sense of repulsion and longing inside him at the same time.

 

While he was sick, the whole world felt liquid around him, spilling like blood from a wound, like water or oil: nothing felt solid or real under his fingers, everything was slippery and unsteady, from the walls of his own house, to his dogs, to the very people in his life. 

 

Even Alana felt like that while he was kissing or hugging her: he could bury himself in the thought of her, in the faint scent of jasmine of her perfume; but the second she was gone, it would disappear, like she had never been there in the first place. Her presence gave him no comfort, because it felt empty of any meaning.

 

He could see water that wasn't really there drenching his bed and dissolving him like acid, he could hear that dripping sound at all times, like a sick melody stuck in his head he could never be free of: he didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore, there was nothing he could hold on to to support himself and not to drown.

 

Nothing, except Hannibal: he was there, solid flesh against his clammy palms, warm and understanding eyes that made him feel almost safe. But there was nothing safe about him, and he was the very reason he suffered in silence for so long, fearing he was losing his mind and that he'd never come out of the pit he had descended into. Hannibal was the one keeping his head down while he was struggling to breathe.

 

There are days where he still hates him for it so much he could kill him, choke the life out him or beat him to death; but mostly, he remembers the hopeful and almost vulnerable look in his eyes during their confrontation in his office, the way the man looks at him like he's so perfect he can barely understand how Will can really exist, and he feels so much love for him that nothing else matters. Not even his own pain.

 

I see your madness and I want to contain it like an oil spill; this Hannibal whispered to him one night, after they had possibly too many drinks and Will's fever was so high he could barely understand what was happening: the air itself around felt unreal.

 

And while looking at Hannibal, all he could think about was that he looked like he was made of crystal, and that Will could see inside of him as clear as day. 

 

There were so many cracks in him, so many damages: and in that moment of madness, he loved every single one of those, and he loved even the ones Hannibal was inflicting on him.

 

He vaguely remembers crying that night, with tears falling from his eyes and Hannibal kissing them away from his face.

 

Will closes his eyes at that memory.

 

The fishes are done quickly after being cleaned: Will places them in the two parchment foils and then garnishes them with a few drops of lemon juice, butter, rosemary, parsley and thyme, ending with a dusting of pepper; to go with them he makes white asparagus using the same method and ingredients. 

 

En papillotte: food cooked wrapped in fine parchment. It almost sounds regal, in a sense, something only reserved for the finest cuts: he'd like to be cooked like that, and it's a thought that has been obsessing him lately, the idea of Hannibal consuming his body like he did with his victims.

 

Maybe it's because he secretly dreams of doing the same: of consuming him by manipulating him into doing what he wants.

 

After the four packets are safely placed in the oven, the appetizers are ready and the soup is finishing cooking, Will goes to take a shower, to wash off the weariness he feels and the strong smells from the kitchen.

 

Water runs over his body, but this time he doesn't feel like he's dissolving: on the contrary, he feels solid and present. The silence around him is not unsettling like it had been in Alana's home: now he feels grounded and relaxed, ready for the night he has ahead of him: even if this sudden courage is just adrenaline, he decides that he doesn't care, and clings to it because he knows he's going to need it.

 

He puts on fresh and better clothes, even a tie, feeling like he's putting on the same person suit Hannibal wears to fool the world and all the people in it; it must be so exhausting to do that every single day, to slip into the clothes of a man he's not and wear that clean facade while hiding all his demons behind it, keeping them trapped so they'll not spill out of him.

 

He looks in the mirror, and for a moment he doesn't see himself, but another man, someone who only barely looks like him, but that it's not who he really is: someone who killed him and took his appearance. It's such a deeply disturbing thought that he can feel his hands shaking: he remembers Georgia Madchen, her desperate attempts to see through the veils and masks of the world by slashing them with a knife. He wonders if this is how she felt, and if this is how he'll feel more and more often as time goes on.

 

But the truth is, this is who he is now: he's not Hannibal and he'll never be him or like him, but he's not the same Will he was a year ago either. He's still discovering how much he has changed, how much all he has been through has manipulated the core of his being.

 

He takes a few deep breaths, until he's calm, until he recognizes the reflection in the mirror once again.

 

Then he goes to call Hannibal, to tell him that dinner is ready.

 

\-----

 

Hannibal expresses his approval for the table setting with an encouraging smile: his eyes scan everything, from the flowers arrangement to the plates and the candles, before they finally settle on him, eating him alive with his gaze. Will doesn't look away, but he feels incredibly small, like the man is pressing him down and compressing him until he'll slowly start to disappear.

 

“I am more and more impressed with you tonight; you're being a constant surprise. This all looks very good.”

 

“Not up to your standards maybe; you'd know how to make everything look fancy and cool, I'm sure...”

 

Will laughs it off, but Hannibal shakes his head as he sits down: he's wearing one if his best suit, the one with the aubergine shirt he's always incredibly fond of; he looks a lot calmer and more like his usual self, but he can still see all the cracks in his armor, the residues of his anxiety still creeping under the edges of his person suit.

 

“This suits you and your own personal style a lot more than anything you could copy from me: it's simple, spartan, almost rustic. Perfect for you: you care little for appearances, after all, while I'm an indulgent hedonist. It is good to remind ourselves of our differences from time to time.”

 

He stares at him for a long moment, before smiling and nodding, just a little bit awkwardly: he feels a faint flush creeping on his cheeks, so he busies himself by lighting the candles. Hannibal smiles back at him from the other side if the table, his face surrounded by the golden light of the fire.

 

Beethoven's Sixth fills the silence.

 

“You're probably right; sometimes it just becomes so hard to separate myself from you: we like to blur lines between us, to pretend they don't exist... but... we still need them to be there so we can be sure of ourselves even while we're together, I guess.”

 

The man nods, then he smiles again.

 

“Is that one of the suits I ordered for you last time we went to the tailor?”

 

He laughs softly.

 

“Yes, it is. How do I look?”

 

“Remarkably well, I must say; but of course I anticipated it, because I could picture it perfectly on you. But I did not think you appreciated these kinds of clothes.”

 

Will shrugs, but comes closer to him so Hannibal can admire him.

 

“Might as well use them once or twice since I have them; they're really nice, after all, and most importantly, they cost a fortune!”

 

“You know money means nothing to me if I get to spend it on you...”

 

Hannibal reaches out to caress his face and Will allows it with a soft smile on his face: his hand is so warm, so pleasant against his skin and he closes his eyes for a moment to appreciate the contact.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

He seems pleased and relaxed, almost placid: they're both way too elegant and all Will has prepared feels so complex and artificial, but for some reason, neither of them seems to mind, and they're keeping the conversation light and harmless for now. He doesn't know for how long that's gonna last.

 

“Did you pick the wines also?”

 

“Of course: went online and did all kinds of internet researches, and all that stuff. I never really even paid attention to what brand or kind of wine I was even drinking before; it blew my mind to know how many kinds there are.”

 

Hannibal makes one of his ridiculous offended faces, and Will rolls his eyes and laughs again.

 

“Shall we start eating now? I don't know about you, but a whole day of fishing, cooking and barely resting, I'm starving.”

 

His smile comes back for a second, creeping behind his lips and barely exposing his teeth. He can always find a way to put some distance back between what he's feeling inside and what the world sees reflected on his face; Will is always in awe of that.

 

“Yes, please: go ahead.”

 

Unsurprisingly, they make it through the appetizers and the soup relatively easily, without much tension: Will feels weird being the one serving the food for once and he has none of the elegance and practice Hannibal has acquired through the years.

 

The man smiles indulgently at him when he makes small mistakes or looks too nervous, with his maroon eyes reflecting the light with an almost glossy feeling to them that makes them look endless: he doesn't help him in any way, but offers little tips and advices that Will internalizes immediately, still feeling very much like an amateur at this, but determined to get better at it in time, to put even this activity on an equal footing.

 

The food itself doesn't disappoint either of them thankfully: the soup is warm and thick enough, chasing away any residual cold between them, and the wine does the rest, easing up the atmosphere.

 

Hannibal even eats the appetizers directly with his fingers, and Will has to fight back the impulse to lick melon juice off of them, while he watches him almost hypnotized: he can become seductive so easily, with such simple and apparently unimportant gestures that makes always a big impression on him.

 

Will has to look away, focusing on his own plate, but still glances back at him from time to time. He's mesmerized by the sight of Hannibal eating the food he prepared for him: it's a way more intimate feeling than he thought it was going to be, because he keeps thinking about the fact that he's nourishing him, and it's almost as intense as eating something made with his blood had been.

 

This is different for him, because this is him having all the power now; he wonders how Hannibal feels, but doesn't want to ask now, he wants to wait for the main course for that. 

 

“Do you like everything so far?”

 

He can't help asking him directly, even though what he could answer makes him not wanting to hear it at all. And Hannibal, of course, takes his time, finishing what remains in his plate before turning his attention back to him.

 

“I do. Like I said before, and more than once I think, I am truly impressed with you tonight. I can try to predict your progresses, how fast you'll learn and how much, but the outcome is unpredictable just like you are. You should not doubt yourself.”

 

Will laughs bitterly at that, because once, Hannibal had been the one fueling his dependence on him, confusing him and using his insecurities and doubts as much as he could. Now he says things like this, something that sounds so normal and comforting, but that just clashes with what he knows about him: that he's nothing like that, but cruel and merciless instead.

 

Yet Will knows he's telling the truth, he knows he means every word, and that hits deep inside of him.

 

He nods and smiles, reaching out to gently caressing the back of his hand with his fingers; Hannibal smiles.

 

“How did you decide tonight's menu?”

 

Will sighs and runs a hand through his hair: they're taking a small pause before the main course, and it's an opportunity to talk a little.

 

“Just personal taste mostly: I knew I wanted to cook fish, it seemed the best choice, something familiar to me: you cook meat, it's your way to show how much power and influence you have. But I am a fisherman, not a hunter like you; so looked up what could go well with it. And I tried to figure out what you would've liked too... I guess this is mixture of all these things.”

 

He smiles nervously, before sipping more of his wine to loosen up a little bit: maybe he's already drinking way too much considering the situation; he needs to be lucid, but alcohol gives him the little bit of strength he feels like he really needs.

 

"It seems fit; you are so used to understand others through your empathy, to be able to read inside of them to find out their secrets and their desires; and you used your abilities on me today, to prepare food that we are eating."

 

Will nods and relaxes a bit: Hannibal takes his hand and holds it: his grip is always at the same time comforting and threatening, dangerous just like he is and it helps him remember that behind his apparent placid appearance, there's still a lion hiding, ready to jump out when he least expects it.

 

Look at those claws; he needs to remind himself that they're always there, even though apparently the man has been tamed.

 

"The same could be said for you. You're even better at using food to influence people, to make them trust you. Do you remember the first meal you cooked for me?"

 

He smiles, and Will sees a flashes of teeth in that smile that makes him shiver, because he keeps imagining them sinking inside of him and tearing him apart.

 

"Of course I do; and I remember how much you disliked me back then."

 

Will laughs and the sound is echoed by Hannibal a few seconds later: they have come such a long way from there; he's not entirely sure this is how their relationship was supposed to go. If he had been different, if he had loved Hannibal a little less than he did, the man would be in prison now, spending the rest of his life behind bars. But if the man had been different, things between them maybe would've never gone this way.

 

Maybe now they would be both alone, missing something they didn't know they could ever have. It's a scary thought that their happiness could only come at such a heavy price for both of them, through so much pain, lies, manipulations and blood.

 

"I told you I didn't find you that interesting, and you just replied: "you will". And you were right... you were so right. And it took you so little to seduce me, to bring me closer to you: saving Abigail and cooking for me that simple meal. You made me trust you; you convinced me you were the only person in my life who could truly help me..."

 

Will sighs and empties his glass, while Hannibal looks at him like he's trying to build up a suitable reply; sometimes it's good to see him struggle with his words, to watch him being unsure of what to say and what to do.

 

Because that's how he feels all the time, like he's slipping and is not sure where to put his feet not to fall.

 

"It took a lot more than that, and you know it. I am still not sure I have you completely, because you always remain elusive for me, someone I can never quite manage to hold firmly in my hands, no matter how hard I try."

 

"Maybe it's better this way: makes things much more interesting for both of us."

 

He smiles at that and Will observes every change of lights and shadows that pass on his face, every single expression he sees: there's always such a great deal of caution and attention between of them, still a wariness and a hint of mistrust that they can never abandon.

 

They're both subtly afraid of the other, of what they could do to each other if the balance between them was destroyed. Will holds his hand again, and Hannibal takes it to his lips to kiss it.

 

"You're right; it does."

 

"Do you ever wish we were different? That things... could be... easier? Sometimes I feel so tired, like I can't keep moving forward and live like this, like the ground is disappearing under my feet..."

 

Hannibal sighs heavily and closes his eyes for a moment.

 

"I am not sure I could ever do that, being a simple and normal person, someone who was easy to live with. And it would not be truly us, if things were so much different from how they have been. But I know we'll both keep indulging in our fantasies, so I don't judge you for your desires."

 

Will nods, but he still doesn't feel satisfied by that answer: it feels empty, like Hannibal is deflecting again because he doesn't want to expose too much of himself; when he surround himself with his armor, he becomes almost impenetrable, so far away from him he feels suddenly incredibly alone.

 

“Do you think things would've been easier if you had managed to turn me into a killer?”

 

His voice is small and hushed; he doesn't dare rising it too much because he's afraid to break the moment. He sees Hannibal inhaling deeply and inclining his head to think about an appropriate reply. Their hands are still locked together and that soft warmth against his skin is comforting.

 

“Perhaps at first: we would have shared so much, even the darkest parts of ourselves, in the fullest ways. I would've loved to see you unhinged, covered in blood and being able to give voice to your most terrible fantasies. But in time, I think it would have destroyed us: you would have ended up resenting me from changing you that way.”

 

“You have changed me.”

 

Hannibal shakes his head vaguely, frowning lightly at his words, like he can't believe he's missing the point of his speech.

 

“Not in that way: you are still the good man I met that day in Jack's office, I never managed to break or taint that part of you. And perhaps it's better this way: had you become too much like me, I would've found you less and less interesting, utterly predictable. It would've been like looking into a mirror and seeing only my reflection.”

 

Will says nothing: this is so incredible honest for him, but twisted at the same time; the way Hannibal sees him, how he processes the differences between them, seems to be covered by a layer of constant awe, like he's the most incredible creature he has ever seen.

 

And that he wants to tear apart to see how he works, to discover every side of him: Hannibal tests and pokes him, pushes him to his limits until he's on the verge of breaking, but when Will is the one who wins, because he fiercely resists and holds himself together... then he seems even more attracted and intrigued.

 

They keep pushing and pulling at each other, trying to build up an equilibrium they can maintain. It's hard sometimes, so heavy and difficult Will feels crushed: but he's also irresistibly drawn to this game they have.

 

He likes to win it, and he likes to see Hannibal strained by it, even when he manages to come out on top. This is the only way for them to live together.

 

“Maybe you're right when you say I changed you way more than you have changed me. But I'm still not sure in what ways and how I feel about this...”

 

Hannibal smiles.

 

“Neither do I; I assure you.”

 

He nods, and then he sighs deeply, before getting up.

 

“I'll go get the next course.”

 

\-----

 

He would be lying if he said that his fingers are not shaking a little while he opens up the two asparagus packages and gently places them on the plates, arranging them to form some sort of frame around the still closed ones with the two trouts. They smell good, everything does, and this of course is encouraging.

 

But after his last conversation with Hannibal, Will feels even more anxious about messing this up and ruining the evening and the mood of honesty he can feel between them. The wine is already on the table, so at least he doesn't have to worry too much about carrying too many things and then dropping them like a fool.

 

Will worked as a waiter for a while when he was in college, and he still remembers the weight of the plates on his arms, the efforts to balance them all to serve the customers: he was good at it, but it was a long time ago.

 

And this is different: it's an important moment for both of them, and Will finds himself thrilled by the anticipation and terrified at the same time.

 

Hannibal observes him immobile like a statue while he places the dish in front of him, and then goes to sit down as well; only when he's settled, he takes his time analyzing the food in front of him, without touching it yet, but already imagining how it'll taste like, how long it took him to prepare everything and if the combination of ingredients is adequate.

 

Will pours both of them some wine while he waits, feeling ridiculous and stupid for being so nervous, like a schoolboy waiting for the results of an important test he studied so hard to pass, but still isn't sure his efforts were enough.

 

Does Hannibal feel like this as well when he serves his food to his guests? He's probably a lot more interested in the subtle and horrible manipulation of feeding them human flesh, of having them unknowingly becoming accomplices of his crimes. Will remember the satisfied look he could see on his face at every meal, at every bite: it was powerful for him, to drink in that sight of corruption and cruelty.

 

But Will doesn't feel like that, not completely: he feels proud of himself and of his work, but afraid it might be rejected and not up to his taste. He's not trying to manipulate Hannibal through the food they're sharing, not consciously at least, but he's still trying to get a reaction out of him and he's not sure what that's going to be.

 

He gulps and swallows nervously when Hannibal tears the parchment with his fingers and inhales deeply the scent coming from it; the man smiles and Will reciprocates it, while he does the same to his own food.

 

"This smells amazingly, Will. I am sure it'll taste even better."

 

Will rolls his eyes and laughs, shaking his head a little.

 

"You always have such a way with words... wait until you taste it before saying something like that."

 

Hannibal inclines his head lightly at that, obliging him by taking a little bit of asparagus and of the fish together, and then bringing it to his mouth. Will holds his breath for a long moment while he chews with his eyes closed, his face in a hardened and controlled expression of measured composure. He swallows nervously together with him: and then he waits.

 

Watching him eat just that bite was already oddly seductive for him, heavy on his shoulders and on his feelings: this is something Will made specifically for him, something personal and unique, a gesture only Hannibal could ever understand.

 

He caught the fish, gutted and cleaned it, spreading the blood of his prey on the cut board: then he prepared it so they could eat it; and it's such an intimate gesture to provide nourishment for another person, to make sure they're well fed and healthy. It's having a great deal of influence on them, on the very integrity of their body.

 

Will could've poisoned him, made him feel sick, drugged him and Hannibal would've been at his mercy then: just the thought is enough to make him sigh. Then the man comes back to him from his moment of deep concentration, smiling proudly.

 

“Very good, Will: very good. I am impressed.”

 

His eyes are almost liquid when they focus back on him, and he feels nailed there where he's sitting by the invisible force of his glance: he can read little in them, because Hannibal doesn't want him to, so he just inhales deeply and smiles back, even though he's asking himself what he's thinking about.

 

And he's so eager to find out he has to bite his lips not to press him further.

 

“It's nothing great, but... thank you. I appreciate it.”

 

Finally, he starts eating too, feeling Hannibal's eyes still on him, never leaving him, like they're trying to imprint something on his skin, to leave a burning mark behind.

 

The food is good, surprisingly even: it's not as good as what the man cooks, but decent enough that even Will finds himself smiling and nodding at him, feeling a flush creeping up in his cheeks, both of relief and of pride.

 

Hannibal offers no further praise, not that he was expecting him to, because he knows too well that he enjoys torturing Will, making him sweat and beg to get what he wants. He likes to make him squirm, to see him stretched so thin his insides and his bones are all exposed through the thin layer of his skin.

 

He looks good while he's uncomfortable or in pain; Hannibal always told him so.

 

But Will loves to see him uncomfortable as well: so he waits to see how their game will play out tonight before he decides what to do. So far, they played nice and easily: but he's not sure if that's going to change or not.

 

They eat in silence for a while, and at every bite, Will's confidence boosts and he feels more and more secure in his skin and of his skills. Hannibal makes low appreciative sounds from time to time, to keep him always on the edge of curiosity.

 

For Will, fishing has always been a very private matter, something that took him directly back to his childhood: he can still see his father on the boat if he closes his eyes, his skin darkened by the sun, his stubble shining grey and white on his face, his crooked grin and his low and slightly harsh voice resounding in his ears. He can smell the sea if he focuses, salt thick in his nostrils and in his mouth, the sun almost blinding him with its light.

 

Every time he goes out, he remembers those moments: he remembers the good feeling of bringing home some good food himself, the thin bond that activity represented for him and his father. Thomas Graham was never an affectionate man: but he would hug him from time to time, pat his back and caress his hair, even placing a kiss on them in special occasions, when Will was still very young, and murmur good boy, Will, you did well, we gonna eat a lot tonight thanks to you.

 

“Are you remembering something that makes you happy?”

 

Hannibal's voice is like honeyed poison in his ears: it insinuates itself inside of him, subtle and dangerous, but instead of worrying him, it helps him relax and makes him smile; he always wants to understand him, to know where his thoughts are taking him. Like he's jealous and possessive of every part of him, and wants to own them all.

 

“My dad and I used to go fishing together when I was a kid: it was the only thing we've ever done together that could really make us bond, the only safe activity for us. I was just thinking about that.”

 

“Perhaps my opinion of your father is lower than it should be: you seem to be fond of his memory after all. More than I would've thought.”

 

Will takes a deep breath and sets aside the silverware for a moment, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

 

“I'm fond of moments, of little snapshots that over the years have piled and piled inside my mind: some have faded overtime, some are still incredibly clear. Did I love my father? Yeah, I did. Did I like him as a person? No, I don't think so. Do I miss him? Well, sometimes I do, terribly, because I'll never be able to try to fix things with him. But most days I don't, I just don't think of him. It's not easy to reduce a whole relationship with a parent to something simple, it never works that way; I wish it could sometimes.”

 

He sips some wine while Hannibal nods vaguely.

 

“Yes, I understand.”

 

Will shakes his head, feeling almost frustrated by his incapacity to turn his feelings into intelligible sentences and meaningful words that will make Hannibal understand what he's talking about.

 

"Do you remember doing anything with your father? Something that makes you think instantaneously of him when you remember it or do it yourself on your own now?"

 

Hannibal considers the question for a moment: then very slowly shakes his head.

 

"No; sadly there is nothing that specific in my memory. I have searched for anything like that over the years, of course, but I was not as lucky as you."

 

He sighs, taking another couple of bites of the food in his plate before it gets too cold: Hannibal still has most of it in front of him, while Will is nearly half way through the fish. They both take a pause to eat, and to also clear their heads and order their thoughts.

 

"Then I'm not sure you can really understand how important those memories are for me: they're like...the only peaceful moments of my childhood. Maybe that's why I still do it even now, after so long, go fishing I mean: because it takes me back to those days. Because it gives me peace: I can close my eyes, focus on the silence around me, and allow the sound of the water to soothe me."

 

"And why you never invited me along? Because you don't want me to taint that feeling with my presence?"

 

He doesn't sound offended or hurt, but almost amused by the situation: because the conversation echoes the one they had months ago about why Hannibal never tried to teach him how to cook, and he has to smile at his ability to flip his words on themselves to use them at his advantage.

 

"I don't know; I think there's a part of that, yeah. It's like seeing you with my dogs or in my house: you insinuate yourself there, and sometimes it's hard to accept it, because those are my safe spaces, where I can be alone with my thoughts and away even from you. Would you go fishing with me, though? If I asked you to?"

 

Hannibal smiles, his eyes shining with an almost reptilian feeling in them. Will shivers.

 

"Oh, of course I would: I would devour the sight of you in that moment, watching you lost in your inner world. I would adore every second of it."

 

"But then, you were less than happy when I insinuated myself in your safe space, asking you to help me learn how to cook."

 

He says nothing for a moment, but Will knows he managed to pierce through his apparent calm, that he uncovered something Hannibal didn't really wanted him to see. He tries to put his mask back on really quickly, to even out all the cracks and damages in it. But he can still see them.

 

And there's something else in Hannibal that catches his attention and distracts him from his thought: something that passes on his face so quickly, Will can't tell for sure what it is, but he knows it's there. And it's reflected in his eyes, giving them a turbid and nostalgic look, like he's trying to form an idea in his mind, but the result is somehow displeasing him.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

Hannibal frowns at him, like he's surprised by the question: he takes a deep breath before replying, allowing the seconds to stretch around them.

 

“Do you know who Gustav Mahler is, Will?”

 

“A composer, right?”

 

The man nods, setting down his fork as well and focusing entirely on him.

 

“Yes, exactly; an extremely talented one, a genius even: but a very complicated man to deal and live with. He fell in love with a much younger woman, Alma: she was a promising musician and composer as well, launched towards a brilliant evolution in her own right, something he could have easily favored, nurtured and encouraged if he had wanted to. But right before their marriage, Mahler told Alma she had to give up composing entirely, because there could be only one great artist in their house and it could not be her.”

 

Will swallows nervously: he fails to see where this is leading, can only catch glimpses of it, but it still makes his skin prickle unpleasantly.

 

"And what did she do? Did she agree?"

 

"Yes, she did: but it caused her great pain. Music was her life, and being deprived of it was devastating. She tried to be a dutiful wife, to subdue her passion, her vitality, her own personality even to her husband's needs. Until she could not anymore; until she started to feel that it was destroying her and souring her relationship with her husband. She fell in love with another man, started a relationship with him, and even considered leaving Mahler for him. Only when he found out, did Mahler realized his mistake, and tried to give her the support she had wanted all those years back. Sadly, he died soon after and little was accomplished."

 

They both inhale deeply after Hannibal finishes talking, and Will feels almost physically weak: he clings lightly at the table, with the weight of Hannibal's words almost crushing him. He can read so many different layers at once in that speech: for someone else, it would be harmless, just a historical anecdote to pass the time, but for them it's a double edged sword that they're swinging around between them and that could potentially kill them both.

 

There's still some form of resentment they never really managed to get rid of, a fear for the changes they started to operate inside each other that could be devastating, if they focused on it too much.

 

He doesn't know what to say, if there is something he can even reply to all that. His lips are as dry as his throat, but he sips some water anyway, even thought his hands are shaking and all he wants to do is start screaming.

 

What stops him, it's that he can also hear something much softer and loving in his words, like a subtle echo that makes him focus not only on the dark and negative parts on what they built together, but also on everything good that came with it.

 

Will presses his palms against his eyes, rubbing them hard enough that his vision is clouded for a second after. 

 

“I can't decide if you're accusing me of holding you back or admitting you did that to me. I'm not sure which possibility is actually worst for me.”

 

Hannibal takes a deep breath next to him, a long shaking sound that seems to fill the room around them, adding more and more tension to what they're already feeling. He used to be a man with no doubts, with no desires except his own: and Will was one of those, something he desired with an extremely destructive force, that was willing to risk everything to have and mold to follow his manipulations, to make him join him in his crimes.

 

But then, the tables changed: and he realized that in order to have him, Hannibal would have to change himself to accommodate Will more and more in his life, in more ways he expected. And he did the same: he compromised his integrity and his desire for justice to have him, to keep him part of his world. And more and more he thinks it was worth it: every tear, every bout of anger and of tenderness too them where they are now.

 

It doesn't heal every wound, but it helps giving each one of them meaning.

 

"Perhaps it's less of an accusation and more of a matter of facts: you have changed me, like I have changed you. Maybe without my presence in your life, you would be the one expecting a child with Alana Bloom, and I'd be still living my life like I used to. I accommodated you in my life in ways I wouldn't have thought possible: I was firmly set on making you as much like me as possible, to have you join me. In the end, things derailed consistently from my original plan: do I resent you for this? Maybe, but I also resent myself for allowing it to happen. Because... I let you change me."

 

Will has to look away for a moment, because the sight in front of him is nearly too much for him to bear: if he glances back at him, he sees Hannibal almost fractured in two, the monster on one side and the man on the other, like they can't quite coexist anymore in the same person. He feels like that as well, more often than he'd like: torn between what he should do and want he wants more than anything else.

 

What keeps them both together is the bond they share, but at the same time, it's their relationship that shattered them, that took away the certainties they had and replaced them with more and more doubts.

 

"Do you resent me, Will? For the way you're living now? For how much I have changed you."

 

His breath comes out shaky and feeble when he exhales, almost laughing nervously to try to handle the pressure mounting inside of him: Will wishes it could be simple to answer him, but it's not, because there is no definitive answer he can give him.

 

He shakes his head almost helplessly: Hannibal is observing him like he's a specimen he's analyzing, always curious of all his reactions, of what he can pull out of him through blunt force, blood and more violence inflicted on both of them. Yet he's still as insecure as he is: his eyes are clouded and uneasy; like he's not sure he wants to hear what Will is going to say.

 

"Yeah, I do sometimes. I really do: I used to know myself, what I wanted, who I was. Then you came along, you nearly destroyed me for your own gain, and I had to rebuild myself with you in my life. But... then I look at you and no matter how much I try to, I can't hate you. And even though I resent you, I don't want to lose you. Guess I'm hoping we'll end up better than Mahler and Alma did: I guess I want at least to try."

 

Hannibal smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes: Will feels tired, almost weak, like his limbs are too heavy for him and he can't carry himself anymore. Even breathing is too much effort. 

 

"I guess I do as well. Once you said we're a mess, but that we work together exactly for this reason; then perhaps, it's not a matter of resentment and change: but of how we can support each other through the process. I won't change the core of who I am, you know I remain a dark and unpredictable man; and you'll remain as you are, good and kind. But we can get somewhere together: we don't know where yet, but I am sure we will find out in time."

 

Does this include stop killing permanently? The desire to say those words burns inside his throat, and yet, he doesn't allow them to come out, because it would be unfair to reduce all they are now to that, to the killings and the blood that passed between them.

 

This is how it started: the killers, the hunt, the madness, the bodies piling all around them, and all the suffering they went through; now there's so much more, even more than he'd like to admit, because he never shared so much with another person, and the fact that this bond is with a man like him, who worships him as hard as he yearns to tear him apart is always hard to swallow.

 

Will takes his hand again: it's cold under his skin, and for a moment, looking at Hannibal, he's not sure what the man could do to him: he could kill him or kiss him, and it'd be just as powerful either way.

 

In the end, there's a soft kiss on his wrist, right where his veins are, with only a faint scraping of teeth.

 

"Aren't you afraid of not knowing where this is going to take us?"

 

"Of course: but I am also curious. And I know you are too."

 

Will isn't sure if he feels more like the poor Alma, trapped and isolated, loving a man too complicated to fully reciprocate her and understand her needs, or like Mahler, blind to anything that isn't himself and his desires until it's too late to fix things. He feels like a mixture of both, and what comforts him, it's that he knows Hannibal feels the same way.

 

So in the end, he nods and then smiles.


	11. a fuoco vivo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is finally done! Thank you so much for sticking around for so long, for encouraging me, for not giving up on me and this story despite my slowlness at updating.  
> I hope the ending will be as satisfying as the rest of the story has been.
> 
> This chapter is long and was very hard to write: I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. Maybe you'll help me understand it better.
> 
> It might not be the end of this verse, but first I need to finish my other fic: but more could come. Hopefully it'll be appreciated.
> 
> Leave me a comment with your thoughts!

Hannibal joins him silently in the kitchen while he's putting the leftovers away in the fridge, before starting to wash the dishes; Will spares barely a glance to him, who keeps standing awkwardly in the middle of the room: he doesn't ask Will if he needs any help, but just observes him, like he's trying to decide if he likes to see him like this, owning and handling a space that is usually only his own with a great deal of apparent ease, or if he loathes the very idea of it.

 

But Will doesn't feel at ease: and the way the man is looking at him is making him even more nervous. He tries not to glance back to him, but sometimes he just can't help it, and feels ridiculously stupid because of it.

 

"I feel like our conversation distracted us way too much from the food you made so many efforts to prepare tonight, and that we have not paid it the attention it deserved."

 

He doesn't sound too disappointed by it, but the apparent kindness in his words makes him smile anyway. 

 

"It's okay; this won't be the only time I'll ever cook for you, hopefully. There'll be other occasions."

 

"But tonight was supposed to be an important milestone for you; you looked forward to it, and you have done so for a long time. This was the very first meal you prepared for me using the skills you acquired in these last few months: are you sure you are not underwhelmed by how things worked out in the end?"

 

Will takes a deep breath and then shakes his head.

 

"We needed to talk, one way or another, and there's still a lot more to say: we'll enjoy the food fully another time, when we'll both be better suited mentally for doing just that and nothing else. I'm glad you liked it, thought, not going to lie: your approval means a lot to me and you know that."

 

Hannibal comes a little closer, but not enough to be in his personal space and overwhelm him with his presence: he stays in the corner, for now, looking at his back and at the nape of his neck, letting him know how close he's to him at all times.

 

He thinks about that often when he's alone, about how he can always seem to feel Hannibal by his side, even when he's not there with him: the man clings to his skin, like a faint aroma or a very subtle mark imprinted on him, one he will never be able to get rid of. He tried, back during his recovery, during the two months spent between the hospital and the facility he admitted himself in, when he refused to see him.

 

He tried to imagine a life without him, free of the sickening feeling that Hannibal brings with him: and in the end, he couldn't; he missed him too much, spent whole nights dreaming about his hands on him, about the soft pressure of his kisses on his forehead or neck, and about the sound of his voice. In time, Will stopped being angry, feeling betrayed and wounded, as he started to rebuild his life from the tatters the man had left it in.

 

And he realized that Hannibal was a part of it, one he couldn't erase.

 

He's so deeply lost in his thoughts, that he barely feels any pain when he accidentally cuts himself with the knife he's washing, and only realizes it when he sees the water red in the sink. He takes a sudden step back and makes a hissing sound that feels way too loud in the quiet room, and tries to grab a towel to clean the wound.

 

But Hannibal is on him before he can properly react, like a shark scenting blood in the ocean and rushing to finish off its wounded prey; he grabs his wrist almost right after, moving so fast he could barely see him approach him, and opens his hand to see to the damage. His eyes are shining as red as his blood; they're almost the same color, Will notices, and his heart pounds in his chest at the contact.

 

The man stares for a whole minute, watching the red liquid dripping on the floor, before kissing the cut, licking the blood away: Will could see it happen in his mind before it did in real life, he could perfectly predict it; all except how that gesture would make him feel.

 

He moans, clinging to him with his free hand, breathing deeply, and feeling the sudden need to pull at his hair and force him to look at him, so he can see the look in his eyes: blood always runs freely between them, it's what keeps together, a small red river that connects them more deeply than anything else could.

 

Will consumed Hannibal's, and now he's doing the same: his lips are stained when he finally does look up, and he shivers in his arms, feeling suddenly weak and barely keeping himself up.

 

For a very long moment, Hannibal stares back at him like it's the first time he laid eyes on him, and he's not exactly sure what to do with him, with the heavy weight of Will in his arms: he could kiss him and just as easily snap his neck. 

 

And the ways his eyes are alight with a morbid and dangerous fire, makes him think he actually might do just that, because there's a savage desire reflected in them, a desperate need for violence and more blood that could end with one of them left dead on the floor.

 

But it doesn't happen: they kiss instead, and Will tastes his own blood in his mouth, licks it away from his lips and moans again when Hannibal presses lightly on the wound with his fingers, almost as if he wanted to dig even deeper inside it.

 

It's all over in a matter of a few minutes, but the ordeal leaves them panting and flushed, looking at each other like they're trying to read any possible meaning of that gesture in their eyes, while also trying to contain the turmoil inside them. 

 

Will starts laughing despite himself, giggling almost hysterically against the curve of his neck: Hannibal rubs his back without really understanding his reaction, one hand cradling the nape and massaging his spine through the skin; he has so much need for control, while Will does nothing but throwing it all away.

 

"How do I taste?"

 

Hannibal groans, like a trapped and hungry animal who was in sight of his prey and then, when he finally reached and grabbed it, is left suddenly unsure if he wants to sink his teeth into it or not. Will licks his lips, and the man smiles his best and wildest grin, pleased, surprised and aroused by the question at the same time: like he can't believe Will would poke like this and hope to get away with it entirely.

 

But knowing perfectly well that he can do just that.

 

"Delicious, of course. Good enough to eat."

 

Will sighs and rests his head against his shoulder for a second, inhaling deeply the mixture of the metallic scent of his own blood mixed with Hannibal's cologne. The man holds him for a moment more, before gently pushing him away, taking his hand carefully into his again, cleaning it with a towel.

 

“The cut is not deep; I don't think you'll require stitches.”

 

He smiles and relaxes while Hannibal fetches the first aid kit and bandages him.

 

“Good: a quick trip to the hospital would've really ruined tonight's dinner for good.”

 

Hannibal quickly finishes the dishes for him and puts the plates away, with Will staring at his back with a grin of his face: the kiss left him almost high, like it pumped something in his system that is making him feel restless and overwhelmed. He can still see the look in Hannibal's eyes behind his eyelids, and it's arousing in ways it probably shouldn't be.

 

“Shall we have dessert or it was not included in your perfectly crafted evening?”

 

“I was thinking we could make something together. That's why I didn't prepare anything. Is that okay for you?”

 

Hannibal looks curious, inclining his head slightly and regarding him with an all new attention.

 

“What would you like to make?”

 

Will considers it for a moment, trying to find something that would suit them: he thinks of the elaborate food they shared, of all his preparations and attempts to emulate Hannibal for a night. And then he remembers his evenings at home with his dogs, spent looking at easy recipes on the internet so he could practice: the odd familiarity and simplicity of those times that could make him completely relax. He smiles in the end.

 

“Brownies. Can we make brownies?”

 

Hannibal snorts in amusement, looking at him finally with a playful light in his eyes: Will sighs.

 

“Very well, then.”

 

Cooking together with Hannibal now that he knows so much more about it and has his own experiences and techniques, it's a lot more interesting and entertaining than just sitting back and watch him do all the work by himself: Will works on one side of the counter and Hannibal on the other, and they both feel oddly at ease now, possibly the most they have felt during the evening.

 

They both take off their jackets and ties, and it all adds to the casual atmosphere around them. Will feels prone to smiling nonstop, while Hannibal glances at him from time to him, amused by his behavior, but still a little detached.

 

He looks almost funny like this, making such a cheap kind of food, and doing it only because it pleases Will and he wants it: he thinks about his father again, asking himself if he would've liked Hannibal. It's a stupid thought, of course, something almost childish, the need of an approval he'll never receive.

 

But Hannibal in this very moment looks like the perfect man: caring and attentive, always receptive to his needs; and this is the same man that licked blood from the cut on his hand a few minutes earlier. He can be perfectly split in two, letting both of his sides coexist when he wants.

 

It's astounding and dangerous, but Will can't help wanting more of it.

 

He stares at the oven for a while once the food is in it, like he used to do as a kid, mesmerized by the magic happening inside it. There's a lot of silence for a while: he hears, faintly, Hannibal moving behind him, opening a bottle of wine and pouring some for both of them, before going to sit on one of the chairs in the corner of the kitchen.

 

Will takes a few deep breaths: the air around them smells like food, like wine and still a little like his own blood, even though they wiped it all away from the floor. It's a comforting scent, something that feels familiar to him after so long.

 

"Come sit here next to me, Will."

 

He turns around to see Hannibal without his jacket and tie, abandoned against the back of the chair, with a decadent smile on his lips: the perfect image of sin, he thinks, a god of blood, pleasure, frenzy and madness enticing him to follow him into his den, where he'll be corrupted forever.

 

He goes, folding himself comfortably after kicking away his shoes, to which Hannibal makes a face, but says nothing: they drink in silence for a while, with Will staring at nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

 

“Are you satisfied with how the evening went?”

 

Will sighs, taking a moment to think about his reply, swirling the wine in his glass. Hannibal never allows them to leave conversations unfinished, even if it means starting it all over again.

 

“Thought it'd be different; but yeah, I kinda am. I think it went well, despite everything.”

 

“It was supposed to be your night: but we both got distracted.”

 

“It still was, in a sense: I got to see new sides of you, we both let out some steam: that meant something to me, it was a good thing, even though it always leaves me exhausted afterward; and I liked cooking for you, watching you eat the food I prepared. It was... very intense.”

 

Hannibal hums, pleased with his reply, and his eyes scan him to try to figure out what he's thinking about and what to say next. It like being back in his office: sitting opposite to each other, trying to understand how to communicate, how to read inside the other and sink their teeth into every exposed bit of skin they can find.

 

“How did it make you feel?”

 

He's not sure how to put his feelings into words, because there's so many of them, and so big they threaten to suffocate him with their weight and their intensity: he bites his lips, stretching his legs in front of himself for a moment and then folding himself in the chair again. It's almost sickening to feel so full and so haunted, and being unable to let it all out.

 

“Proud of myself, for a start: like I was doing something... special for you, something only I could do. And I loved that, that feeling of power it gave me. I was providing for you physically and it felt important, I can't even explain why or how, because it's something that it's so deeply buried inside me I struggle to understand it myself. But I think I know how you felt now, why you used to throw all those dinner parties: it made you important for the people involved, even if they didn't or couldn't know how much. You had power over them, and you just love that feeling.”

 

“Yes, because we both know how much you like to have power over me, to be able to influence me: you could've poisoned me, got me sick or even killed me and I would've been completely at your mercy. Did you consider it?”

 

He nods, feeling ashamed, but at the same time not, because he knows Hannibal wants him to tell him all this, the twisted and most secret fantasies of power play that can run between them.

 

“I'd be lying if I said I didn't.”

 

Hannibal takes a deep breath, and keeps staring at him, almost without blinking.

 

“Do you still fantasize about being free of me? Either by killing me, turning me in or leaving me?”

 

“I don't think I'll ever completely stop, to be honest; just like you'll never stop considering if you should just kill me and eliminate the threat I represent to you and your freedom. It's part of who we are and of our relationship.”

 

“It's almost reassuring, that we can freely share these thoughts, even when there's always a hint of doubt on whether or not we'll ever act on them.”

 

His voice is soft, with just a hint of amusement, and a gravitas to it that always makes him smile: he's always performing, even in honest moments such as this; the mask can be lowered, but it's never entirely dropped and Will can never see completely what lies behind it.

 

What are you hiding so carefully, what's so secret and dark you can't even show it to me? He wants to ask that, but he knows Hannibal would just elude his question, filling him with half answers made in equal part of lies and truths.

 

“What would you do if I left you? If I met someone else and fell in love with them. Would you hurt them to force me to stay with you?”

 

Hannibal smiles, in that reptilian way that makes his skin prickle with a sense of constant danger and excitement at the same time. It's not the psychiatrist smile or the soft lover one he can see directed to him during their quiet moments in bed: there is nothing reassuring or warm in it, and his eyes are alight with a dark shining that promises nothing good.

 

He's like a cruel and bloodthirsty god, waiting for sacrifices to be laid down in front of him.

 

“You want me to say that I wouldn't: to reassure you that I have changed enough not to do something like that. But I also promised not to lie to you again: and I would be if I said that.”

 

Will closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath: he had no doubts this was going to be his answer, but it still leaves an unpleasant and sickening feeling inside of him. He could never forget who Hannibal is, what he'd be willing to do to keep him close; some parts of him might change, but others will stay the same, just like the wounds he carries with him, and those that are left festering inside his heart.

 

Killing, after all, would be so easy for him, as would be to lie and manipulate the world around him to make sure he'd stay. 

 

He sighs, looking at him through his lashes, and he appears almost unreal, ephemeral, like a dream that could disappear if he stretched his hand and tried to touch him: Hannibal observes him with his head titled to the side, like he's the most fascinating specimen he could ever have the chance to analyze in his life.

 

And maybe he is: because they are never going to meet another person who will understand them as deeply as they understand each other. 

 

“You don't look surprised or frightened.”

 

Will smiles.

 

“I'm not: and I appreciate your attempts at being as honest with me as much as you can allow yourself to be; it's a scary thought... to imagine what you would be willing to do to keep me with you, what have you already done, in good and bad, to do that. Yet I still ask you about it, and I still think about all the possible outcomes. And it probably shouldn't flatter me to realize how extreme your affection for me is and what it could make you do. And also how far I would go to accommodate you in my life.”

 

The man inhales deeply: maybe he can smell fear and excitement on him, mixed with the sweet and buttery scent that comes from the oven.

 

He doesn't look entirely pleased with his answer, like it opens some new doubts inside of him that he doesn't know what to do with just now, instead of sorting out their feelings. For a long moment, Hannibal keeps staring at him, piercing through him with eyes that have lost all the danger and darkness they had been charged with just a few seconds earlier: he can transform himself so quickly, assume different shapes in a matter of seconds, leaving Will struggling to keep up.

 

“Are you saying that you would remain with me only because you would be too afraid to leave me, knowing what I could do to the new person you were sharing your life with?”

 

His voice is so low, and there's a vague uncertainty in it that makes it sound completely different from his usual tone, that controlled and steady one he masters always so well, the one that makers him quiver: he's afraid of my possible answer, Will realizes with a sudden incredulity. 

 

He's not sure what to do with this new information, or how he feels about it; but something appears clear to him: Hannibal can't fathom the idea of being a second choice, that Will could not belong entirely to him. And he's afraid of that possibility, so much that not even his usual marble-like composure can hold it back this time.

 

When they were discussing the possibility of Will having an affair with someone else, it never even contemplated the scenario of him preferring them to him: Hannibal likes to pretend he's sure in knowing himself, what he wants and the amount of influence he holds over him, and that Will would never leave him, because they share so much so deeply.

 

But the truth is that this doesn't make him less afraid of losing him: it's almost tender, in that devastatingly dangerous and violent way that represents tenderness for them.

 

Will shakes his head.

 

“If I wanted to leave you, I'd do it: I would kill you or get you caught. I wouldn't stay with you only out of fear for what you could do to me or other people: I'd hate you for that and you would notice sooner or later. I stay because I want to: because I want you.”

 

Hannibal keeps looking at him for a moment more, before averting his eyes and making a throaty sound that it's probably the closest Will is ever going to get to some genuine surprise and embarrassment from him: his answers still surprise him; they are still capable of getting under his skin and tearing open little wounds inside of him with their honesty.

 

Will has no interest in lies between them anymore, not after all that happened: and he gets a very specific kind of pleasure from confronting Hannibal with truths the man doesn't want to hear, even when they benefit him.

 

"Aren't you curious to know what I would do if you wanted to leave me?"

 

He smiles while saying that, and laughs softly at the face Hannibal makes: once again, he's given the impression of having the upper hand in their relationship because of how much Will can seem to distress him.

 

But then he sees the shine in his eyes and he can just tell he's still performing, only this time there isn't just the acting, but also truth mixed with it: Hannibal is curious and threatened at the same time, and he's not sure which sides attracts him more.

 

Will feels small under his gaze, nailed down by it, but, at the same time, still in control.

 

“Do you think that could be a possibility?”

 

He shrugs, looking away and busying himself by playing with a loose thread of his sock: it's such a childish thing to do, but he can't stop himself, no more than he could do it when he was a kid and the action of looking away and focus on some menial thing was the best defense mechanism he had.

 

Hannibal stares intently at him, reading his body language like an open book: Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

 

He's not really sure what to reply to that question, and more he thinks about it, less sure he becomes: he knows Hannibal's passion for him is laced with enough obsession and need to possess him to keep him interested for a very long time, he knows how much they share and how much they mean to each other; in a sense, this is what love means to a man like him. Will is sure that his affection for him is real.

 

Yet he also knows he's a curious and sometimes even fickle creature, that longs to be always surrounded by new and compelling things so to be able fill the spaces between the cracks of his armor. He loves beauty; he loves beautiful and interesting people that can ignite his passion. Nothing stays the same for him; if it did, he'd want to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

 

Even his approach to him constantly changed following the development of their relationship: every day is new for them.

 

But Will still tries to imagine him with someone else, playing with them like they do together, constantly fighting to reach a balance: it's unsettling, because a part of him screams in jealousy even though he then hates himself for it.

 

He never considered Hannibal could leave him before: and the thought shouldn't upset him so much, probably, because it's a sign of how much importance and space the man occupies in his life now, despite what he is and what he did to him.

 

Will takes a deep breath and then shrugs.

 

“Everything is possible with you; it could happen. I guess I should just at least... consider the possibility. I'm not the only interesting person in the world, the only one that could understand you. You could meet someone else.”

 

He tries to make his voice sound as even and calm as possible, but obviously Hannibal knows better, and stares at him like a hungry hawk, famished and ready to devour him and his feelings, to pick him apart and tear him to pieces. Any reaction he can get out of him matters and excites him. But he also catches the almost resigned note in his words, and that seems to bother him.

 

“And what would you do in that case? How would you react?”

 

He's maddening amused by how much the tables have turned, still enjoying the sadistic pleasure of cornering him and watching him squirm way too much. And the truth is, Will doesn't have a definitive answer: he's still not sure how much living with Hannibal has changed him and his priorities in life, his secret needs and his willpower to pursue them.

 

In the past, he could accept the end of a relationship easily, sometimes even with a hint of relief: they always drained him, because he always had to be somebody else to fit in his partners' worlds. But this is different. Much different.

 

“I... I'm not sure I could let you go.”

 

He's honest and Hannibal's eyes shine like rubies in the harsh, white light: the man licks his lips and he shivers.

 

“It's not just because I don't want to lose you, there's that too, but... it's because... you're mine. You belong to me, you're all I want: and after all we went through, after all you put me through... I think I deserve to have and keep you.”

 

Will makes an almost angry sound when he catches the genuinely happy and satisfied smile on Hannibal's face, and then can feel his cheeks heated and flushed. Then man takes his hand and kisses it, his palm, his wrist every single one of his fingers, until he has to look away.

 

“Yes. That is how it is: I belong to you, and you deserve to own me completely, to have all you want to me. How does it make you feel? To understand than about yourself? That you are as hungry and possessive as I am and to be finally able to admit it?”

 

Will swallows hard, staring at him, mesmerized by the almost devoted look in his eyes: Hannibal looks elated; like every single one of his words was a gift to him he wasn't expecting to receive. 

 

It's endearing and it probably shouldn't be: for once, he's the one who wants to tear Hannibal apart to read inside him. So many emotions are passing on his face and Will wants to eat them all up, to see how they would taste in his mouth. 

 

He's not used to feel like this, to want to understand someone so desperately and to erase any kind of distance between them: Hannibal makes him want things he never thought he could allow himself to desire. The violence they share is a part of him now: it soaks him from head to toe, mixed together with love, resentment, affection and fear.

 

He sighs.

 

“It makes me want to believe we are finally equals now that we have everything in the open. All the rest that there is to know about us and what will happen... I guess we'll find it out together.”

 

Hannibal, for a few long moments, has no reactions: he stares at Will with an unreadable expression on his face, with his eyes focused entirely on him while he examines and internalizes his words. He waits in silence: he knows a reaction will come; he's just not sure what it'll be.

 

He sighs, closing his eyes: he looks so still Will can barely see him breathing, and it's astonishing how far away from the world he can retreat when he wants, but it also makes him feel alone, constantly hanging on the edge, afraid of what he might find if he were to fall.

 

After a while, Hannibal opens his eyes again, holding out his hand, waiting for him to take it: he does, feeling the soft skin of it under it, the strength of a grip that could kill him if he wanted. He sees himself reflected in him, in the way they modify and adjust their lives around each other.

 

He can't decide if the touch they're exchanging is genuinely tender or not: he wants to believe it is, that it's just a way to show affection to each other in a tangible way, because words sometimes are too big and frightening for both of them. But Hannibal's hands always awaken sinister memories inside of him, that mix love and fear. And he's not sure if he can trust his desire fully, or if he'll end up making himself blind to everything else.

 

Hannibal smiles.

 

“You are right, I think. It took a lot of efforts to get where we are now: but I think it was worth it, and that we can be content with what we have now.”

 

Will nods awkwardly, as he observes Hannibal caressing the back of his hand with his fingers. It's familiar and comfortable, two things that seems to be so foreign in them, so far away from what their relationship should be: and yet now it evolved so much that they can indulge in tenderness without it being artificial or manipulative.

 

This is as much peace as they'll ever be able to get, probably. He sighs: he wonders if this is weird for Hannibal as much as it is for him.

 

“Are you sure you're not going to tire of me, of this quiet life and find me boring eventually?”

 

Hannibal laughs softly: they both try so hard to keep that sparkle of savage curiosity alive between them, that fire that consumed them when they first met and that set in motion all that happened since then.

 

“That I am sure will never happen.”

 

Will smiles and takes a deep breath: he says nothing, but can't deny the thrill of pleasure that runs through his body; their relationship is messed up in the worst possible ways, but is works and, for now, it's the only thing the two of them want.

 

He nods in the end.

 

“Let's go finish our dinner.”

 

\-----

 

Dessert is a lot more relaxed and peaceful than the rest of their evening has been so far, and it allows Will a moment to collect himself and his thoughts: Hannibal stares at him from time to time, making idle comments about the food, to which he laconically responds, earning a couple of displeased looks, but nothing more. He leaves him alone for now, obviously content with just observing.

 

An odd kind of apathy starts to sink inside of him: he's tired, confused by all the feelings he has towards Hannibal and what they discussed tonight; he's not sure he can take it all inside at once, though he's trying. He has the impression that something important is starting to come to surface between them, something Hannibal tried to hide from him so far: he afraid of what it could be and curious at the same time.

 

But obsessing over his doubts and his suspects isn't going to get him any closer to the truth, unless he decides to share it with him: Will feels dangerously at loss, unable to stop imagining him killing again, but at the same willing to trust him and his words.

 

He wonders how much of his faith in him is the product of careful conditioning, of Hannibal's ability to manipulate him and his emotions, and how much of it comes only from himself and the real bond that exist between them. It's always disturbing to think about that.

 

Will returns to his food, bringing another brownie to his mouth and allowing its sweet taste to fill him: it's good, really good, and in that moment the realization that this is the first real meal they have prepared together hits him.

 

Despite himself and how deep in his thoughts he's lost, he smiles: he remember Hannibal's hands guiding him through the process, the pride in his eyes at finally witnessing his skills in action, the soft grin on his lips, how easy it had been for them to find a perfect rhythm to work together. It's those moments that make him stay, he thinks, not the lies, the manipulations, but that feeling of peace he can get from him.

 

“A penny for your thoughts.”

 

Will is forced out of his head by his voice; he laughs and keeps smiling.

 

“Sorry, I zoned out for a moment. I wasn't ignoring you on purpose.” 

 

“I am sure you were not, that would be rude. What were you thinking about?”

 

He sighs, finishing the last bite in his plate and cleaning his mouth before turning towards him: they're sitting on the same side of the table, all pretenses of etiquette abandoned, and their knees are almost touching. 

 

“That we really make a good team in the kitchen.”

 

Hannibal considers his words for a moment, staring at him like he's trying to decide if this is the whole truth or not, before nodding.

 

“You are right, of course: we really do. It was a fascinating discovery, both of your cooking skills and of the pleasure that having you around in my kitchen can bring me. I was expecting to feel it as an intrusion or a violation of my private space, but that did not happen.”

 

“Well, I... appreciate your honesty. We should do it again; maybe cook for Abigail next time she comes back from school. Or for Alana before she has the baby.”

 

The man inhales deeply, staring at him with fiery eyes. Will doesn't look away, but feels a rush of heat running through his body.

 

“Or for Uncle Jack.”

 

Will lets out a displeased sound and doesn't reply to his provocation: he looks around himself, at the dining room illuminated by the soft light of candles and fireplace, and by the dim lights above them. The first time he saw it, the herbal garden on the wall, the impressive table that stood proud and threatening in the middle of it, he was intimidated and fascinated at the same time.

 

It reflects Hannibal perfectly, in all his different sides: the indulging hedonist, the pragmatic doctor, the lover of everything beautiful, the expert cook and, silently, at the bottom of it all, hidden to everyone but him, the killer. Now Will can see it perfectly.

 

His eyes indulge on the painting on top of the fireplace: Leda raped by Zeus in the form of a swan; it sends shivers down his spine as a sudden wave of desire crashes into him.

 

Even back then, when he didn't know who Hannibal really was, when their intimacy was not even nearly as intense as it is now, the image of him fucking somebody on that table could enter his mind at the most unexpected times, paralyzing him: he felt dirty, wrong and rude for doing such a thing with the image of a man that was trying so very hard to help him, for picturing even himself once in that position and situation. 

 

He saved the thought for one of his quick masturbation sessions, and remembers now falling asleep to the dreamlike impression of Hannibal spreading him, exposing him and then taking him right there, all this with his usual solemn and calm expression on his face.

 

He was starving to be touched, to feel something solid under his body: and Hannibal was in his head at all times, the only person he could cling to.

 

Now, it's almost automatic for him to think that and without any kind of lingering shame: they haven't actually done it so far, but imagination is not hard for Will, on the contrary; and now it's mixed with his fascination with the idea of Hannibal eating his body. He can imagine the man fucking him while cutting him apart, his mouth full of blood while swallowing small bites of his flesh.

 

He groans as silently as he can, but Hannibal, of course, notices it and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Something the matter? You seem exceptionally fixated on the décor of the room tonight.”

 

Will shakes his head.

 

“I always wondered: do you keep that painting there because you want to deliberately shock your guests or just because you like it and you don't care about their reactions?”

 

Hannibal takes a moment to serve the two of them a rich and black espresso that fills the room with its strong and intense aroma: Will inhales it before drinking it, something the man taught him and that he does automatically now, gaining a smile from him at that sight.

 

“Both reasons are valid, I think: I enjoy getting visceral reactions from the people around me, to see how far I can push them; but I also greatly enjoy beauty and art. You, of all people, should know that.”

 

Will sighs; for a moment he considers biting back the acid comment that rises to his lips, but in the end, he lets it out.

 

“There's a huge difference between hanging an obscene painting in a dining room to shock a bunch of uptight and prudish people, and playing with somebody's brain while they're ill and nearly completely dependent on you, making them believe they're goin insane.”

 

Hannibal acknowledges his words by lowering his eyes a little, the closest thing to regret what he did to him he'll ever get from him: Will takes a deep breath, and tries not to think about that. They went through all this so many times, with him lashing out at him with venomous hints and Hannibal taking them all graciously, almost enjoying how vicious he could be.

 

He deserves it, of course, that and more: he deserved the punch Will threw him in his office the day he found out; but he doesn't deserve to put himself through that all over again.

 

“Do you ever think about fucking me here on the table?”

 

The sudden change of topic peaks his interest, and Hannibal stares at him with an unreadable smile curving his lips: his eyes gleam, and Will smiles back, relaxing against the back of the chair.

 

“Have you, Will?”

 

“I asked first, so it's your turn to answer.”

 

Hannibal laughs softly, accepting his words graciously: then slowly, he takes off his jacket and finishes his coffee, so to be to able to dedicate his attention entirely to him.

 

While they were pretending to be doctor and patient, Will, while feeling a lurking sexual desire for him, struggled to imagine Hannibal in such acts at first, especially during their very first sessions: he was so controlled, so reassuring, so removed from the rest of the world, and it almost felt wrong to imagine him naked and panting during sex. 

 

Now he knows how he looks while he's fucking, how his face transfigures and changes, how rabid and famished he can become.

 

It sends shoots of pride and pleasure to know he can provoke those changes in him, that he can shatter his composure so deeply.

 

“I cannot say I never did, because that would be a lie: the thought did occur to me from time to time.”

 

His voice is so flat, nearly unemotional, like he's calmly discussing the weather instead of giving voice to some of his most hidden sexual fantasies: Will nods awkwardly, blushing despite himself. It might be a terrible cliché, but he just can't fight his reluctance to discuss sex, even when it's with him: he feels stupid, yet he can't help it.

 

“Then why you never asked me to? Or mentioned it before?”

 

Weirdly enough, the question seems to bother him somehow: his face darkens, and Will catches him playing with the silver spoon still in the empty cup. A nervous tic that he understands far too well, and that makes him smile a little.

 

“Food and sex are two of the most basic human needs, and it's not unusual for them to mix in some way: but in our case, both carry very deep meanings, some of which are difficult to face and contemplate. It always felt too extreme, too dangerous even for me to bring them to light and give voice to them at the same time.”

 

“Were you afraid of asking me?”

 

Hannibal, for a moment, absolutely doesn't move or changes his expression in the slightest.

 

Will feels suddenly like he has the higher ground and is completely in control of the conversation, and of Hannibal's reaction. The man smiles faintly, and then raises a hand to caress his neck, his nails grazing lightly at his throat, in a gesture that wants to be at the same time seductive and threatening. He does it so often, an almost automatic reflex, a way to keep him under control, and it should probably make Will ask himself how deep his fantasies of choking him run.

 

He bites his lips and closes his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply: the man could grab a knife and cut his throat during this moment of distraction. And Will, instead of being scared, only feels more and more excited.

 

“Maybe you are the one who should be afraid, and who is foolish enough to think you can control me: you know what I have served on this table, to you as well, what happened in this house, all that I have done during my years as the Ripper. The fact that this does not seem to bother you at all, should tell us something about you more than about me, especially because it seems to only arouse you more.”

 

Will doesn't have to say anything to that, because they both know he spent hours and hours stepping into his shoes, becoming him to understand him: he imagined himself killing and mutilating, serving the spoils of his crimes to his guests, dining on the spoils of his victims with a vicious smile on his lips.

 

Hannibal slides the hand that was around his neck between his legs, cupping his half hard dick through the fabric of his pants: Will moans softly, biting his lips and looking at him through his long lashes, running his fingers on his arm.

 

He feels on the verge of starting to laugh because of how surreal the situation looks to him: his desires are running free through the space of his mind, and he wants to see the man absolutely lose it, wants to disappear himself in his unleashed passion. And the fact that their surroundings are so mundane, apparently the opposite of what he's feeling, just seem to highlight them more: his eyes catch sight of the painting once again, and he smiles.

 

“Do you want to fuck me here?”

 

Hannibal smiles back indulgently, removing his hand and looking at him with sudden curiosity; there's more in his eyes, but Will can't make it out completely now: the man slides his thumb across his mouth until he parts his lips and gently sucks on it, licking it as it goes in and out.

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Will nods then, a pleased smile appearing on his lips, an almost triumphant one; and he lets him go so he can pull Hannibal closer and kiss him on the lips: their position is so uncomfortable he struggles to stay on his chair without falling from it, but that doesn't stop them, it actually only seems to add a challenge to the moment. Hannibal peels his shirt off of him, then starts to unbutton his own, and caress his naked chest afterward.

 

They take their time enjoying every new bit of skin they uncover like it's the first time, with Hannibal breathing against his neck while kissing it languidly, and Will laughing softly at every new touch. His fingers and lips are so warm on his skin, so reassuring and burning through him at the same time: it could always elate him, to be touched like that, to be wanted and loved and desired so deeply and so completely.

 

He knows Hannibal would devour and honor every part of him, without leaving anything behind.

 

It's with this thought in his mind that after a few minutes, Will stands up and gestures him to relax, while he takes off his pants and his shoes, before kneeling down in front of him: Hannibal groans and looks down on him while he runs his fingers through his chest hair, scratching at his nipples before busying himself with unfastening his trousers.

 

Suddenly, he remembers the first time they ever did this: or tries to, because that memory is somehow jagged by the confusion of his old illness and by the intensity of his emotions back then; they were in his office, and Will was shaking and crying and screaming after confronting him with the truth.

 

He clearly remembers how he punched Hannibal, once, twice, making him stumble back against the desk; he didn't fight back at all, took in all Will was throwing at him and then some, with a savage light in his eyes that told him he was struggling not to kill him right there. But that he was also enjoying himself to death, that he wanted to see Will like this, strong and wild and angry and madly aware of all his secrets, of all his darkness, seeing him clearly for the first time since their first meeting.

 

Will can't remember exactly what he was thinking about, because at times, he could feel himself blacking out, forgetting where he was to slip into a world of darkness and madness, into a confusion that swallowed everything and crushed it into nothing: he could blink and see Hannibal in the shape of a monster, no longer the composed and affable man he knew, but a cruel predator with blood on his lips, fire in his eyes and shiny white teeth ready to sink into him.

 

He can remember, however, Hannibal whispering his name: once, twice, rolling it on his tongue like a prayer and curse at the same time: Will approached him, trembling and sweating, desperate and angry at the same time.

 

Then he kissed him, crushing their mouths together, and licked the blood away from his lips, drinking it in and memorizing its taste, color, how it looked splattered all over their faces.

 

He looked so beautiful, so terrible and terrifying, like a nightmare for an ancient past that he could barely handle to witness, but he didn't look away: he was frantic, out of his mind with fever, fear, anger and lust. 

 

He wanted to kill Hannibal and to fuck him to death, to wrap himself around him and to kiss him, to cry on his shoulder and push him away; he went down on his knees and sucked him off instead.

 

Will focuses on remembering the weight of his cock in his mouth, the scent of sweat, cologne and soap on his skin, on the feeling of Hannibal pulling at his hair hard enough to bruise like he's doing now, rubbing his fingers hard into his skull while fucking his throat.

 

It goes on for a few minutes, and Will puts all his efforts in that act, focuses on making it as pleasurable as he can, a beautiful feeling that runs closely on the edges of pain, when he gives him the smallest hint of teeth against the sensitive skin. Hannibal groans hard at that.

 

He struggles to breathe for a moment when the man pushes him away, but looks up with a smile on his lips, feeling smug enough to lick the whole length of him one last time before getting up: he doesn't feel very sound on his feet, and swings a little back and forth, feeling almost drunk and completely out of his mind, before Hannibal grabs him by the hip and helps him to sit on the table.

 

He allows himself to be undressed, looks down as Hannibal slowly takes his underwear off, nodding appreciatively at him and caressing his exposed legs and hips with a smile on his face.

 

For a moment after that, Will is filled by a sudden embarrassment for being naked in such a setting and situation, while the man is still almost fully dressed: he sees himself reflected in his eyes, and catches all the physical defects he usually ignores, but that something just sip through the layers of his low self esteem.

 

And yet, Hannibal looks at him like he's absolutely perfect, whispers gentle words against his skin as he starts licking his way up to his chest, biting him and kissing him, manipulating him with his hands and mouth until Will can nearly forget himself in those touches. He never truly cared about being attractive or sexually desirable: yet now it's all he wants to be for him, he wants to drive him crazy and seduce him like did never before.

 

When they finally kiss again, after the man has worshiped his body with fingers and tongue, it's a hard and deep kiss, one that leaves him breathless, but that he doesn't want to end. He could eat me alive, he would do it if I let him... the thought hammers inside his mind like an obsession he just can't let go of.

 

Will sinks his nails into his naked shoulder to keep him close, and Hannibal groans at him, like a trapped animal, like a big cat claiming its ownership on a prey. He moans when the man bite his neck, leaving behind a big, red mark.

 

“Get naked, come on I want you naked. Fucking take this clothes off!”

 

He knows he already sounds way more desperate than he should, but he can't bring himself to care: Hannibal peeled off so much of his person suit tonight, to allow him to see him almost completely naked and exposed; and Will feels the same way now, with all of himself pouring out of him because there's nothing to hold it in.

 

And, God, he wants more of it, he wants everything he can get out of him even if it'll hurt: Hannibal nods vaguely before doing as he's told, slowly taking his clothes off while he looks at almost hypnotized by the act.

 

He can manage seduction so easily, with so little efforts, and all Will can do is stare at him wide eyed, scanning his body with his eyes until he's completely naked physically as well: he could never do that, be so good at manipulate himself in that way, and how charged the air around them is after those few simple gestures, just leaves him breathless.

 

Hannibal settles back in his chair with a wide and shark-like smile on his face, and it makes Will shiver, before he climbs on top of him, unsteadily trapped between the table and his body. He's so gentle, so tender when he starts to caress his face with both hands, running his fingers through his thick curls, with an expression on his face both of complete awe and of deadly desire to destroy him.

 

He wants to be fucked so bad, to feel him do deep inside he'll feel like they're fusing into one person: he used to be terrified of that, of becoming too much like him, of losing himself in the thick and impenetrable mist that Hannibal can be; but he knows himself now, he knows the similarities and difference that run deep inside them and isn't afraid of their bond anymore.

 

They kiss again, grinding against each other, and Will knows his face is red and that they're probably making a mess, but can't bring himself to care one bit, because he treasures every chance he can get to see Hannibal unleash his most secret fantasies and desires with him. 

 

The thought of himself served as the main course on that very table hits him again when Hannibal pushes him back against it: and he can just see it happening, can imagine the knife cut through him so clearly and vividly he moans almost in pain, starling the man, who looks at him slightly confused, but at the same time with curiosity lighting up his gaze.

 

He shakes his head and then rests his forehead against his shoulder, kissing the skin there, while Hannibal rubs his back.

 

“What did you think about doing to me?”

 

Hannibal groans, almost with anger, when Will grabs his hard cock and starts stroking it slowly, struggling to find a comfortable angle to do it and look him in the eyes at the same time: he exposes his teeth, his hair covering his eyes a little and giving them an even wilder and more dangerous look. Will licks his lips and gently squeezes him, forcing him to inhale sharply and close his eyes for a moment.

 

“Are you sure you want to know? This could be more than you have bargained for: you don't know what kind of thoughts might exist in the most secluded parts of my mind.”

 

“I know, but God, I don't care? I want to know, I want to know everything, all the worst thing you can think of. Tell me how hard you want to fuck me, how you wanna do it, what do you want me to do...”

 

Hannibal pulls his hard so hard he nearly screams and has to let go of him to cling to his shoulders, nails sinking into his flesh, not to fall down. Casually, Will wonders if his death would come this suddenly: one moment staring into the man's eyes, and the next lying dead somewhere in his house, ready to be butchered. It's not something he likes to dwell on, yet he constantly does.

 

And the man seems to know that perfectly, because he smiles up to him and runs his nails across his back, right along his spine, pressing on the bones and rubbing them through his skin until Will feels almost like collapsing in his arms, already too tired and weak to handle this too. Because Hannibal can makes every gesture tender, every violence and cruelty gentle, he can take care of him with the same hands he uses to murder and destroy. 

Will knows perfectly well how closely related those two things can be for him: he knows he should run away from a man that can only love like this; yet he doesn't.

 

“Why don't you ask me what you really want to know? If I am killing again, if I really intend to stop, and all the other questions the hang on your lips, but that you never allow out of your mouth.”

 

He bites his lips and has to look away for a moment, feeling his eyes almost wet with tears of frustration he always bites back, because he refuses to give in, to appear weak in front of him, to show his heart even more than he does already: but they know each other too well and still not enough at the same time. 

 

Will knows him almost better than Hannibal will ever know himself, but they're not the same person and the constant clashing between their personalities, mixed with how alike they are, is what makes it impossible for them to really break free from one another.

 

Their bond runs too deep, the ropes that hold them together are too tights to be cut now.

 

Will takes a few long, deep breaths with his eyes closed, biting his lips and trying to master up all the courage he can to say what has been mounting and mounting inside him during the last months: he's tired of live like this, of constantly worry about what could be happening, of what Hannibal could do.

 

He holds him close, almost pulling at his hair, staring in his eyes.

 

“Are you going to stop?”

 

There's no need to specify what he means, they know it perfectly well. The pause that follows his words feels endless, and it wears him out, as does the fact that they're both naked and aroused in such an unusual setting: they love to exploit each other's vulnerabilities at the worst possible times, when their defenses and walls are so low they almost cannot fight back.

 

He's not sure if he's sounding nearly desperate, deliriously hopeful or just resigned to accept whatever answer he's going to get from him: but how Hannibal looks at him right after that, makes him smile a little. Because he looks... almost lost like this, pressed naked with Will on top of him, pushing him back against the chair, resting their foreheads together.

 

He takes a very deep breath and presses his fingers against his cheek.

 

“I am afraid I cannot give you a definitive answer to this question: you made me swear I would never lie to you again, and I intend not to do it. And I have the feeling that, even if I gave you one, it would still not satisfy you.”

 

Will nods and kisses him, holding him close: Hannibal is a man in pieces that attempted to stitch himself together over and over again during the years, losing parts of himself and gaining new ones as time went by, changing his appearance and his soul. He's a terrible, monstrous man, he's a good man, a killer and a doctor, his lover and his destroyer: and he's so aware of how much love he holds for every side of him, that this answer becomes exactly what he needed to hear.

 

“Would you promise me to stop if I ever asked you?”

 

Hannibal smiles in the most dangerous way he can master, that grin that allows his eyes to shine red and bloody and terrifying; Will shivers in his arms, bites his lips, but doesn't look away.

 

“That would be an interesting scenario indeed. And even more interesting way for you to prove how much power you have over me, especially to yourself. Why don't you ask me then?”

 

Will bites his lips: Hannibal is toying with him, pushing him forward to see how fast he can run. He plays along because he just can't help himself.

 

“You know why. I told you already.”

 

“Yes, because you don't want that responsibility: if I started to kill again, my victims would be your failure, and my decision to stop wouldn't be as sincerely motivated as you want it to be.”

 

Reluctantly, he nods.

 

Hannibal seems oddly satisfied by it: he's sure he is, making Will expose himself while he still managed to hide behind his curtain of smoke; but it's not quite right, because he saw how attentively he listen to every single one of his words, how much weight they hold for him.

 

He's never really completely conscious of the power he has, of how much he managed to change Hannibal during all this time: and when the realization his him from time to time, it shakes him to the core. He knows he can't be completely changed, that he's not going to ever let go of the darkest parts of himself: but there is so much more to him, and they're becoming aware of it together.

 

Neither of them is really in control, and they both are at the same time.

 

“How often do you think about killing me during sex?”

 

Hannibal laughs against the curve of his neck at the sudden change in topic: it resonates through both their bodies from where they're touching.

 

Will allows him to kiss his shoulder blades, to bite his neck and smiles at him when he pulls back to reply. 

 

“The thought is constantly engrained in my mind, Will: even now. Does it frighten you?”

 

He shakes his head and reaches out to take his cock into his hand once again, stroking it up and down with slow movements until he's fully hard once again: Hannibal's breathing becomes a little faster and his pupils dilate slightly, but he still looks too calm, too composed and he wants to destroy that entirely.

 

“No; at this point... I'm not sure what could. But I want you to fuck me as hard as you would if you intended to kill me during sex. Give me all you have, do everything you want to me, okay?”

 

Hannibal stares into his eyes like he can't quite be sure if he's serious or not, and if he's fully aware of what he's asking him: he inhales deeply, like a predator scenting the air to follow the trail of blood his wounded pray is leaving behind so he can finish him off.

 

It takes only a moment more for him to decide, before smiling: he helps Will get on the table again, lying flat on the surface, while Hannibal grabs both his legs and pushes them back, almost folding him in half: the man bites the inside of his thigh hard, sucking a big red mark on it, while he looks at him with heavy eyes.

 

The wood is cold against his back, uncomfortable, but the image of himself placed there, right where he pictured so long to be killed and eaten, is so powerful it makes him forget everything else: he's exposed, completely vulnerable and open, with no way to protect himself.

 

Hannibal had him at his mercy many times before, sometimes not even aware he was, but this time it's Will's conscious decision to be there like this, to allow him to show him how terrible he can become. All this time, he struggled to be in control, to understand his own power over him and how to use it to gain his agency back: maybe what he really needs to do is giving up for once, lying back and watch Hannibal unfold and strip of his armor in front of him.

 

Will watches him resting between his legs, face pressed against his lower abdomen, licking and biting as much skin as he can manage to reach, massaging his hipbones with just the tip of his fingers, but without touching his cock, no matter how much he needs it: Hannibal rubs their bodies together and it feels like he's trying to fuse them, to sink inside of him through layers of flesh, muscles and bones, until he'll be inside of him completely.

 

His hands find their way to Hannibal's head, fingers pulling at his hair, rubbing his scalp, while he moans at ever touch and every kiss: it feels almost too much already, every sensation too intense and raw even though the contact between their bodies isn't nearly as deep as it has been in the past. 

 

But this feels different, because he can remember such few occasions in which they've been so honest and open to each other, so willing to see each other as they really are, with their flaws and demons exposed together with the love and care they're capable of sharing.

 

When Hannibal pulls up and the kisses him on the lips, Will surrounds him with his arms, holding him as close as he can. His eyes catch a glimpse of the plates, glasses and cutlery forgotten on the opposite side of where he's lying, like the relics of a past so far away from them, it can barely be remembered: his fingers brush against a knife, and though it barely touches his skin, the contact with the metal makes him sigh heavily.

 

He finds Hannibal looking at the scene with avid eyes, like he's trying to devour it: he looks so much bigger from this angle, his muscles flexing and his whole body dominating him and keeping him pressed down, and even though Will isn't much smaller than him, he feels incredibly vulnerable for a moment. 

 

Sometimes he wonders who would win between then, if it came down to a physical confrontation: they're both accustomed to violence, to fight for their lives, they know how to be ruthless and vicious; it would probably be decided by how much they want to kill the other and by how deep their will to live is.

 

Will remembers spending days fantasizing about killing Hannibal, lying in his hospital bed, during the days of his recovery: but when it actually came down to it, when he had a gun to his head and all he had to do was shoot him and it would've been over in a second... all his hatred just evaporated, leaving behind a desire for him in his life that hasn't left him since.

 

Hannibal steps away from him for a moment to retrieve some lube, leaving him lying on the table covered in sweat, naked and already exhausted by how much intimacy they have been sharing tonight, he can feel himself almost drifting away inside his mind: every touch felt so much more amplified than it usually does, every word was heavier and with so many different meanings.

 

They always see each other from so up close, that sometimes what the see becomes blurred and confused: it becomes hard to tell the difference between them; they are so alike that the risk of losing themselves in the other is always present. Most of the times, Will fights it, does all he can to affirm himself and who he is: tonight, he wants the exact opposite; he wants to get so far under his skin, so deep inside him, they'll both forget the lines that separate them.

 

“Are you still with me, Will?”

 

Hannibal's voice is so low and husky, barely a whisper against the curve of his ear; he smiles and runs the tip of his fingers on his lips.

 

“Yeah, I'm right here.”

 

“You looked very far away, lost somewhere I could not reach you.”

 

Will sighs heavily and bites back a moan when Hannibal slides a slicked finger inside of him, moving it slowly: he's not sure if he's trying to distract him or confuse him, but he goes with it anyway, holding his legs up to give him more room; he always feel so awkward in that position, so exposed in an uncomfortable way.

 

“That's how I feel with you most of the time: you lock yourself up in your palace and you keep me out. Do you ever wonder how that makes me feel?”

 

Hannibal doesn't reply: he finally starts touching him, taking his cock in his hand and pumping it a few times, delighted by the little noises that come out of his mouth, putting his lips on one of his nipples and biting hard, making it hard for him to focus; Will hates him when he acts like this, yet he can't help giving in and wanting more of it, so much more.

 

“I suppose it's just another kind of reciprocity between us: we have our inner worlds that are inaccessible to the other. It's a way to keep ourselves under control.”

 

The man opens him up slowly and carefully, with none of their usual rush: sometimes, they're too eager, too fast, and it takes away from the pleasure of watching each other fall apart in their arms; Hannibal holds one of his legs up to get a better angle, while Will pushes against his fingers to allow them to go deeper inside of him.

 

Will wants to hate him for making him feel like this, for being the only person capable to understand how to make him scream and come and feel so good like he never did before: he liked sex with his other partners, but there was so much pressure to perform, to pretend that he could never truly enjoy himself. But Hannibal ravishes him, he skins him alive of all his doubts and leaves him a sobbing and wet mess after every fuck.

 

“God, you're so fucking good! Keep going, keep going! Ugh, just fuck me already!”

 

Hannibal has three fingers inside of him now, fucking him with them hard enough to make him gasp in pleasure, but it's not quite what he wants and needs, he still doesn't feel full enough. He tries to move bis hips towards him, to make him go in deeper, but the man, catching his intentions, suddenly stops.

 

Will nearly screams and bites his lips when he takes his fingers out, putting his hands on both his knees to keep his legs spread, but without making any other gesture to start actually fucking him.

 

He feels so empty, so desperate to be filled, it's like he's aching from the inside: Will digs his nails into his shoulder, but Hannibal doesn't move.

 

“God, just fuck me already! Stop being such a damn tease!”

 

Hannibal stares at him with a grin on his face, before letting out a low laugh that makes him shiver and close his eyes in frustration.

 

“Ask me again, but saying my name this time.”

 

“What?!”

 

He squint in confusion, feeling stupid in this position and situation enough not to have to add that too to the fold of his feelings: now it's Will's time to be caught at his most vulnerable time, naked, embarrassed and so horny he'd say anything to get Hannibal to fuck him. 

 

“I am not sure how conscious of this you are, but you very rarely call me by my name when we are together, even during our most intimate moments: one could think you are afraid of it, of letting it out; like it's some kind of curse you want desperately to avoid.”

 

Will sighs when Hannibal goes down on him and kisses his shoulder blades, the curve of his neck and bites him lightly there: he knows he's starving for more as well, just as much as he is, but he's far more controlled and used to hold himself back than he is. And it's so much like him to obsessed over details such as this, to notice everything Will does and says and then to use all this to his advantage.

 

He likes to see him in distress as much as he loves to see him in pleasure.

 

“I'm not sure I do it consciously either: I know you love saying my name over and over again, like a spell to give yourself more power over me, as much as you can manage to hoard... maybe I just don't do that because I'm starting to understand I don't need anything like that to have the same power over you.”

 

Hannibal's eyes are so fixated on him, Will can almost feel himself shrink under that gaze.

 

“It's an interesting insight, indeed. How aware you are becoming should terrify me, yet it only draws me more and more to you. But perhaps all I want right now is hearing you say my name, devoid of any other implication.”

 

“Things are never so simple with you...”

 

He smiles almost sadly, closing his eyes for a moment, then sighing heavily.

 

“Then let's allow ourselves to pretend they are, just for one time.”

 

Will is taken aback by how his voice sounds for a moment, by the deep look in his eyes: he can't help always doubting his honesty, the truth in his words, yet he knows he wouldn't lie, and this conflict always leaves him unsure of what to do next. 

 

It's hard to make the two images he has of Hannibal match in his mind, even after so long he can't quote believe that the same man who could kill without any trace of mercy so many people, who was okay with concealing a life threatening illness from him, it's the same one who can genuinely crave his affection, who needs these quiet moments between them, to be reassured of his role in his life.

 

He's so used to making it himself, to occupy the spaces and roles he thinks he deserves even through violence and by destroying everything that stands in his way, that suddenly being so dependent on Will and his feelings, on how he relates to them, must be destabilizing. Sometimes, he looks at the two of them and isn't sure who's the most fucked up of the pair: him for staying despite everything, or Hannibal for dancing so close to what could be his own destruction.

 

Will closes his eyes, abandoning himself against the table, conscious of Hannibal's eyes scanning his face in search of new answers. He doesn't pity him, would never do something like that, but he understands how he feels far too well.

 

They've been alone for so long, they still can't quite understand companionship and what it really means. He sighs heavily.

 

“I like the way you say my name; I always did since we first met: it used to give me this feeling of complete attention, like you were focused only on me and no one else existed for you while I was there. And it was comforting: now I know it was manipulative as well, but it's still a comforting feeling in my memories. And I don't care why you do it now, Hannibal: just keep doing it.”

 

Hannibal observes him quietly for a moment, in perfect stillness and silence: Will counts every single breath that pass between them, time defined by how they look in each other's eyes; then the man kisses his knuckles, gently follows the shape of his hand with his lips until he reaches the wrist, pressing them right above the bundle of veins resting under his skin. It's an intimate gesture, more than being naked under him, more than kissing him or having sex with him.

 

In a sense, this is Hannibal bowing down to him and to his words, taking them all in where they'll be kept safe.

 

“Fuck me, Hannibal. Please?”

 

The man straightens himself, and both his hands go to rest on his shoulders, massaging them lightly while at the same time holding him down: he's so warm, so strong, and Will is so aware of how easy it would be for him to kill him right there, that he closes his eyes and bares his neck, allowing him to see him like this, surrounding, but choosing to do it.

 

He can hear Hannibal sighing, and knows he understood.

 

When he pushes into him, slowly, making him beg for every movement and ever inch, Will keeps his eyes closed tightly, blinding himself to anything that isn't the feeling of Hannibal moving inside of him, to only hear the sound of him breathing hard and fast against his ear. 

 

They both go completely still for a moment, barely moving, and he can feel the man's lips on his cheek, sliding towards his mouth: it's electric when they finally kiss, and Will, in a wonderful moment of lucidity and clarity, thinks that they've never been as close as they are now, that they've never seen each other as clearly as they're doing now; Hannibal moans in the kiss when Will scratches his back to bring even closer, to feel him deeper inside of him even though there's almost no space left between them.

 

He looks wild as he starts fucking him harder, making the table shake under them; his pupils are blown out, making his eyes looks almost black from that angle, and the way he looks down on him, how shadows move on his face and twist his expression, makes Will moan loudly, open mouthed and wide eyes, not even bothering hiding any of his feelings. This is how they live together: building walls and forts, and then enjoying watching the other destroying them, tearing them all up with a gesture or a word.

 

He feels so hard, so damp with his own sweat and precome, needy and willing to beg on his own needs to get the release that's building up in his stomach, but that he also wants to delay because it feels so good, but he knows it could feel even better.

 

“Is this how you would fuck me before killing me? Making it feels so good I wouldn't be able to fight back or realize it because you just fucked my brains out?”

 

Hannibal looks mildly bothered by his language, though he lets out a very soft groan of pleasure anyway, but then a smile all teeth and wickedness opens on his face, and Will is hypnotized by it, but how bad he loves the feeling of danger that's spreading inside of him.

 

“I would spoil both of us, yes: give us one last opportunity for sexual intimacy before destroying it forever. Call me selfish, if you want, but I'd fuck you like you've never been fucked before. And I would save that memory, keep it carefully stashes away inside my brain. I would want your last moments to be of pure bliss; it would make you taste sweeter.”

 

Will has no reaction for a long moment: he feels completely numb, almost anesthetized, before the words finally sink into him and he sighs heavily, biting his lips not to moan out loud when Hannibal follows his speech with a deep thrust that throws him off his thoughts; he can picture is so clearly, Hannibal carefully taking care of him, of his pleasure and of his body with a gentleness that would overwhelm him, that would erase every possible suspect from his mind during the act.

 

And then, with that very same gentleness, Hannibal would kill him: fast, most likely, so he wouldn't suffer and he couldn't change his mind. Will can almost feel the knife cutting his throat open, his hands around his neck, breaking it or strangling him.

 

He pulls Hannibal down to kiss him hard, biting his lips until he draws blood, licking it away and swallowing it while the man stares at him wide eyed and mesmerized by his gesture: Will tries to rub his cock against his stomach, and can't bite back a moan when Hannibal tugs at it, holding it his palm with not nearly enough pressure to get him off.

 

“How fucked up it is that this thought only makes me want you more? That it only makes me more and more aroused? God Hannibal!”

 

The man bites his shoulder, leaving his mark behind on his skin, and when he looks up to him, Will isn't sure what he's actually going to do to him and if he's going to survive the night: it's a thrilling thought, as terrible as it is.

 

He doesn't think he has ever seen Hannibal's eyes so wild, so far from their icy composure he feels then clawing at his flesh and stripping him naked of his skin, cutting through the bones until he'll be reduced to nothing but a beaten pulp: he has never been more dangerous, and to Will, he has never been more beautiful than he is right now.

 

Hannibal takes a very deep breath against the curve of his neck, holding Will's legs up, making him feel so much strain he thinks he might be about to break in a million pieces: but he doesn't move, he strokes his hair gently, kisses his temple and holds him close to the very heart he could so easily stop.

 

“I suppose there is no point in telling you how dangerous what you're saying is for you; I am not sure anything could stop or frighten you anymore.”

 

Will laughs against his skin: he watches as Hannibal disentangles himself from the mess of limbs they're forming, and moans out loud when he pulls out and goes back to sit on the chair, waiting for him to climb on his lap. He does it after spending a few seconds catching his breath, feeling unstable on his feet, his legs wobbly and shaky.

 

Both their eyes catch sight of the knife still abandoned on the table: Will caresses the handle with the tip of his fingers, feeling a rush of power, fear and desire through that touch. Hannibal licks his lips at the sight of him still sitting on the table naked, deciding if he should grab that weapon or not.

 

And Will does the same: he stares at Hannibal, at his strong body covered in sweat, glistering over his chest and pubic hair, at how fast his breathing is, until his eyes stop on the thick and heavy cock between his legs. There's violence between them, but there's also passion, desire and a desperate need for what they can give each other that never stops pumping through their veins.

 

Will leaves it where it is, ad then slowly sits on top of him: Hannibal looks only mildly disappointed by that gesture, but it's soon erased from his features when he takes him inside of him again, making both of them moan loudly; he feels full once again, so close to him he almost feels like he could slip a hand through his chest and grab his still beating heart, hold it in his palm while stroking it with his fingers. He has all of him, and it's just then that he realizes it, while he moves up and down on his cock, with Hannibal's nails scratching at his back.

 

“That... could've been your only chance to get rid of me, to be free once again.”

 

Will shakes his head, his eyes clothes and forehead pressed against Hannibal's.

 

“I don't want to get rid of you; I don't care about being free anymore: I want you to own me, all of me.”

 

And from the way Hannibal looks at him right after, eyes so liquid it almost looks like they're bleeding red all over the two of them, they both know he's telling the truth.

 

Then the man kisses him, hard, and they sink into each other.

 

\-----

 

Will jerks awake slowly, blinking blindly in the darkness a few times before he manages to let out the long, unsteady breath he was holding: he's slightly damp with sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his skin uncomfortably as he sits down and massages his eyes a few before looking around.

 

He's not sure what interrupted his rest and woke him up, but the lingering feeling that still hovers above him is morbid and unpleasant in a way that makes his skin prickle almost with disgust: but he can't remember if he was dreaming or what, so he just tries to calm down, breathing in and out until his heartbeat normalizes and his eyes get used to the darkness in the room.

 

That's when he realizes Hannibal is not in bed: his side is still a little bit warm, but he's nowhere to be found and the light in their little bathroom is off. The terrible feeling returns, slips inside of him like poison running through his veins and rushing towards his heart to stop it. Will licks his chapped lips, closes his eyes and tries to listen to the silence that surrounds him: he hears nothing, but imagines where the man could be far too well.

 

He's not sure what he's feeling, why he is suddenly so deadly afraid of getting up and go find him: his whole body is still trapped in a languid post sex weariness, his mind occupied by the heavy weight of their conversations during the evening; and in the back of it, there's the sudden realization that if he does get up, if he does find him, he might not be prepared and ready to face what he'll see in him, what he'll uncover if he digs even more inside of Hannibal tonight.

 

It's not really a choice, because he knows perfectly that he cannot stay there, that he just can't simply try to go back to sleep: Will tastes something bitter and dangerous in his mouth, like blood could come down pouring out of his throat if he opened it too much and let it out.

 

He caresses the space Hannibal usually occupies, fingers running over the soft cotton, over the remains of heat he still finds there: it's comforting in a sense, and helps him push forward.

 

He stumbles towards the bathroom while taking off his shirt and putting on a fresh one, washes his face and tries not to look at himself in the mirror: he still catches a glimpse thought, and a man with haunted and cursed eyes stares back at him for a second, one he doesn't want to face yet.

 

Hannibal, of course, is in the kitchen: he's wearing a black sweater over his pajama pants, and is so busy washing the dishes he doesn't even seem to notice him when he enters the room: usually, the scene would be comforting and amusing to him, to catch the man in his natural habit while he does something so mundane and normal with his usual seraphic and aloof expression on his face.

 

It's different now: because there's a stiffness in his muscles, an impatience in his movements that makes it clear to him that he's sharing the same feeling he has. He still can't help staying there in silence for a while, just staring at his back, imagining the muscles working under the fabric, his strong hands handling delicate objects in the same way they would handle a knife, his eyes focused on his task.

 

Will sometimes imagine tearing Hannibal apart as much as he imagines himself being cut open, exposed and dissected like the carcass of a poached animal: he wonder of running a scalpel through all the layers of skin, tissues, muscles and bones would feel like, what kind of sounds would it make as it break the man down.

 

What kind of swirls of colors and shades would his blood make, how would it smell like: he imagines opening up his chest and abdomen and finally get to look inside of him. Giving voice to an almost childish fear, for a moment he wonders if Hannibal is truly human, if his insides will look like his of they'll be revealed to be a mess of black and oily blood and monstrous organs.

 

Will can picture himself holding his still beating heart in his fist, slick and warm and pulsing against his skin: Hannibal would be looking back at him with infinite fondness and awe, this he knows for sure, because every wound and every cut feel like blessing to him. I hurt you as much as I love you; this is the unspeakable truth between them.

 

A part of him thinks that tonight wasn't supposed to go this way, that it wasn't supposed to bring up such dangerous and messed up feelings between the two of them: but, the truth is, Will isn't sure how he expected the evening to go, what he wanted to achieve with it. He wanted to get closer to Hannibal, to use the food he prepared for him to slip inside of him: but now he's afraid he went too far, and isn't sure he wants to see what the man is hiding.

 

And it uncovered something frightening inside of him as well, old nightmares and fantasies he usually tries as hard as he can to lock away in the darkest parts of his heart, but that are flooding his mind now, so hard he can't fight against them.

 

So Will approaches Hannibal with images of himself with his arms elbow deep inside him still running through his head.

 

“What are you doing up?”

 

Hannibal doesn't reply, doesn't even give him the impression of having registered his words at all: he keeps washing plate after plate, forks, knives and spoons and settling them all neatly where they belong; it's almost like he's sleepwalking, doing all this automatically and without being really aware that it's really happening.

 

Will wants to grab him, turn him around and shake him until he'll be able to get some kind of reaction out of him, slap or punch him if necessary, hurt him and make him bleed in front of him to get what he wants. He looks around himself, and suddenly the room gives him the impression of changing around him, with walls bending, the lights darkening and the air in it becoming almost poisonous, kicking him in the lungs and making it hard to breathe.

 

"Hannibal? Are you okay?"

 

He can catch an hint of panic in his voice, a nearly desperate note that infuriates him, because he has no idea why this is happening, what he's supposed to do and why Hannibal is treating him like this.

 

What's wrong with you? Why can't you just be honest with me? It would chase all the nightmares and the monsters away; it's your fault if I feel like this.

 

Then suddenly, when the last plate is safely in the cupboard, Hannibal seems to come alive all of a sudden: he doesn't turn around to face him, but Will can see his muscles going slack, losing the tension in them.

 

"I am; I simply woke up and could not go back to sleep. Nothing more than this. But you should not stay up on my account."

 

You fucking liar; Will wants to scream that to him, to keep doing that until the man will stop hiding. How dismissive he sounds, almost adds fuels to his fire and he can't believe that after all that happened between them, Hannibal still feels so much need to keep him out.

 

He takes a very long and deep breath, before marching towards him, grabbing his arm to finally force him to face him: the man looks utterly unimpressed by his action, apparently at least.

 

But all it takes is one look at the fury in his eyes, at the barely held back rage he reads on his face to understand that he's not wrong. Will's first instinct should be to hit him and the run away, to escape the threat in front of him.

 

He's still holding his arms hard in his hands, fingers and nails digging into them: he's still there, immobile and ready to face whatever it'll come with his usual absolute lack of self preservation and a boldness that comes more from fear than from courage.

 

Will closes his eyes, inhales deeply and then puts his head against the curve of his neck, licking away some of the sweat pooled there, kissing the skin and sighing in relief when he can feel Hannibal relax again.

 

They are still so afraid of what the other could find out inside of them, desperate to hide their secrets, while, at the same time, wanting nothing more than to share everything. One part of them, screams "run, run for your life and don't look back"; another tenderly whispers "stay, hold on to him, trust him, love him".

 

"Please just stop. I'm tired of this game: I waited and waited for you to be ready to share with me whatever it is that has been haunting you all these months. But that's enough now: I don't want to force you, because I know how fucking awful that is; but I won't let you go without an answer."

 

Hannibal laughs, a coarse, unhappy founds that hits him in the middle of his chest like a shotgun.

 

"I should know better than to try to hold secrets from you. But you should know better than to ask so directly: what if what you'll find out disgusts you, frightens you, and makes you wish you had never forced me to share it with you?"

 

It's a relief to see he's not trying to change the subject: Will can picture him laying down his armor, all his weapons and lining them up in front of him; they're yours to use, you're the one who gets to pick first. It's a heavy responsibility, but he's not shying away from it anymore.

 

Will takes a step back and rests his back against the counter, so he can look him in the eyes: when he looks around, the room is back at its usual appearance. He smiles and shakes his head.

 

"Do you honestly think there is still something you could say capable of destroying what we have now? That would make me run away from you, terrified? There's a voice in my head that tells me to leave you and save myself every day, that keeps whispering to me that I would be better off without you. Because you're a monster, that this will never change: but I never listen. Do you know why? Because you're my monster: you're the monster I deserve, the nightmare I'm not afraid of seeing when I lay down to sleep. I won't leave: so you better come to terms with that and tell me the truth."

 

And the look this confession earns him, is one of pure awe: Hannibal looked at him the same way in his office, right after Will told him he wasn't going to turn him in, that he wanted him to much to do that no matter how much it made him hate himself. Acceptance for him is just as erotic as resistance, submission and fight: it's the perfect combination of all they are for each other, and the very reasons why they'll always be linked to one another.

 

Hannibal vaguely nods.

 

"You are very brave, Will. Very strong."

 

"I'm not brave; I'm stupid. I don't know what's good for me."

 

They both share an amused look at that: then Hannibal takes a deep breath and Will knows the truth is finally coming.

 

"I will make us some tea: and you might want to put on some slippers and a cardigan; the heat has been on only in our bedroom, and it is quite chilly in the rest of the house. Then... I believe we shall talk."

 

The steaming mug in his hands is comforting, as is the delicate scent of the herbal tea around them: Will looks at Hannibal while the man sips it slowly, and tries to interiorize some of that apparent calm inside of him and make good use of it.

 

They're sitting on the couch in his study, a blanket on their legs while the fireplace creaks in the background. Will waits, not sure what it is that he's waiting for.

 

For a while, while they stay there in silence and barely touching, he focuses on the spirals of steam that rise from the hot liquid, follows them as they elevate themselves to the ceiling: Hannibal observes him instead, eyes piercing through him, like he's waiting for the best moment to start.

 

He sighs, turning around slightly to meet his eyes: he's not sure if he sees an honest fondness in them, or just a calculated one meant to allow him to relax; not that he could fully, anyway. Will wraps himself in his cardigan, and Hannibal understands from the look on his face that he can begin.

 

"Do you remember our conversation all those months ago? When you asked me what would I take from you to eat? How would I kill you to better preserve you in order to consume your body?"

 

Will nods.

 

"Yeah, of course."

 

"As incredible as this might sound, I had never considered that possibility before: of eating you, or, at least, of killing you just for that one reason. That was the first time the thought entered my mind."

 

All Will can do is swallowing uselessly, like a fish out of water struggling to catch its breath: his hands are shaking when he reaches out to put the mug safely on the table, and he feels suddenly a lot colder than he should. He catches the look in Hannibal's eyes, the way he's eating up his discomfort and surprise to try to hide his own: he can't bring himself to do or say anything, because all these new emotions seem to have numbed him.

 

He's not sure what his voice might even sound right now, so he just licks his lips and waits for him to continue.

 

"Of course, I have imagined killing you many times in the past, even now I still do from time to time: I caress the idea of your death with the tip of my fingers, like a windowpane covered in condense. I draw lines on it, I imagine how it would feel and look like, how beautiful you might look in those moments. But, somehow, I never really bothered imagining what I would do with your body after: would I bury you in my garden where I could revisit you over and over? Would I grant you the same treatment I reserved to my other victims? This seems unlikely; because I'm not sure I would be able to part from you even after your death. Perhaps yes, I would eat you: but I had never truly examined the importance of such an act before."

 

Will can picture it so clearly: Hannibal running his fingers through his hair, caressing and petting his dead body, closing his eyes and then lying him to rest somewhere safe, where no one could ever find or disturb him, a place only he would know. The gentleness that would be in his touches after doing something so unspeakably horrible, something as inhuman as killing the only person who could ever truly be half of his world.

 

He can feel one, single tear falling from his eye, and for a moment he doesn't really understand if he's crying for himself or for him: but then his brain finally catches up with their conversation, finally understands the sense of it.

 

He should feel wounded at the idea of being apparently discarded like this, of not even being worthy of his table: but it's not what this is, what that confession was all about, and when Will finally manages to put all the pieces together, a surprised sound escapes his lips. He stares at Hannibal wide eyes, seeing realization on his face as well, followed by a sudden hardness in his gaze, by his fists clenching and a stiffness appearing in his muscles once again.

 

There is no way this could be so easy, so simple to the point of being so very hard to imagine. Will takes a deep breath.

 

“It's because you consider your victims pigs, cattle, animals only good for the slaughterhouse and nothing else; you don't even see them as human being anymore after they're dead: they're nothing but a carcass to use as you please. The organs you take from them and that you consume are just a byproduct of the murders, not the reason you kill them for. Their meat holds no meaning for you because they don't matter. But I would be different, right? Because, for you, I'm the realest and most human person in your life. You would never consider me a pig, an animal: so you never thought of using my body like that, even after my death. Eating them is no different for you than eating normal food; but you have no idea how to rationalize what eating me would feel like.”

 

Will almost feels weak after letting all that out in the open; he has to close his eyes for a moment, rubs them with his palm hard enough to see stars behind his closed lids. When he opens them again, after managing to barely calming down the fast beating of his heart by takes a feel slow and deep breaths, Hannibal is looking away from him, staring right inside the fire.

 

It reflects on his face, giving him an hellish appearance, and softening his features at the same time: Will wants to touch him, to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers are shaking, overwhelmed by what he's feeling, and his whole being in reduced to desperately waiting for him to tell to give him any glimpse of what he's thinking.

 

Hannibal inhales and exhales a few times, the rest of his body completely still, like he's a predator hiding in the darkness, saving his strength to finally attack.

 

“There is no intimacy in consuming my victims, no trace of any kind of feelings, actually. You do not have any emotions towards the cooked chicken in your plate, after all. But consuming you... would be intimate. Possibly the most intimate act that could ever be possible between us: and I have obsessed over the thought during all this time. This one simple act that should've been almost taken for granted considering who I am, is actually the one taboo I myself am frightened to consider.”

 

Will can't help himself: he reaches forward and grabs him arm, forcing Hannibal to look him in the eyes; he's afraid of himself, of what he could do to me if he could not hold back any longer, and this is the first time it ever happened.

 

Hannibal enjoys most kind of violence they have shared during their relationship: loved it when Will begged to be hurt, when he hurt him in return, loved watching Will take his blood and then consume it. But those action were safe, because the man had complete control over them and over himself.

 

Now he doesn't: and he's not sure what he could actually do.

 

“To keep you inside of me forever, to devour and include you with my own being... Do you have any idea how powerful such a thought is? How dangerous and terrible it is? Sometimes I fear no other kind of intimacy could ever match that; all that we share would pale in comparison to this one fantasy... but what would remain me after consuming you? You would be lost to me and in me at the same time...”

 

“Is this why you were so reluctant to help me learn how to cook? Because then I would've been even more capable of understanding what you could do to me? Because we would've shared yet another bond that brought that fantasy back in the front of your mind?”

 

Hannibal smiles at him: because, no matter what is happening between them, he can never shake away that sense of pride and awe he feels towards Will.

 

This is so akin to his dream of tearing him apart to look inside of him: he's doing it right now, he's peeling off his skin, cutting him open and learning his darkest desires from his insides, from his bones. What Hannibal truly wants is also what he fear: he wants to possess Will entirely, but the thought of losing him, of destroying him to the point where nothing of him would remain, is what holds him back.

 

The man nods in the end. Will smiles back and then, very gently, kisses him: he's glad when Hannibal does not pull away, but sinks into the kiss, biting his lips to remind him who he's dealing with, the perils he's exposing himself to. Will laughs.

 

Will understands how deeply their relationship has modified how they both function towards each other: once, Hannibal would've followed his curiosity and his desires blindly, not caring at all about the consequences. Destruction was the purest and most elevated form of creation he could consider, and destroying him would have had an irresistible appeal.

 

But now there is a part of him that wants to build, that wants to create something from the ashes of their past lives and watch it grow, no matter how twisted and complex and dangerous that growth will turn out to be.

 

He's not sure in what way what they share has changed him: probably never truly will: once he would've never been able to face the darkness within himself so easily, because just the thought of it would've sickened him; but now he has Hannibal's to remind him of who he is, of the differences and similarities between the two of them.

 

“I don't believe eating me would be the highest level of intimacy possible for us: you think that because consuming human flesh is an important act for you, the very surge of your power over all the people around you. But that's not what it is for us: when we ate your blood, it wasn't the act itself that had weight, but what came with it, all that we shared because of it.”

 

Hannibal considers his words for a while: he's not longer afraid, but curious once again, attentive to read every aspect of his body language. To Will, he's always beautiful and terrifying like this, his eyes like scalpels cutting through him. 

 

“You think that sharing these fantasies, the truth of us, is what brings us truly close. Perhaps you are right: but sometimes, the idea that this is simply not enough hammers in my head, pulses against my temples like a beating heart; and all I can think about is having you inside of him, devouring you to know how you would taste, licking blood away from your skin and kiss all the wounds I inflicted on you before consuming that too.”

 

Will smiles.

 

“Violence brought us together: but it's not the only thing that keeps us together.”

 

Hannibal sighs, eyes closed, and then, in probably the most human gesture Will could expect from him, he puts his head on his shoulder, hiding against the crook of his neck, allowing himself to be held, like he's afraid he might crumble to pieces otherwise.

 

They understand each other, even the parts they're too scared to face, those that disgust them or wish they could destroy: Will is never going to forget what he did, how violent and threatening he is, and is never going to stop wishing he could be different, that he could ask him to change for him.

 

Hannibal is never going to truly stop being a killer at heart, of hoping he could turn Will into one: murder is always going to be a slithering and seductive calling for him.

 

The man digs his nails into his back to remind him just that: that he's a lion with sharp claws ready to maul him. But he's also the mouth that searches his to kiss him, pushing him back on the couch gently, trying to get as much love from him as he can.

 

Will smiles up to him, to the amused look he received in return.

 

"You're so beautifully unafraid of me, even after all that I have told you."

 

The smile nearly disappears from his lips, and takes the form of a nearly pained expression instead. Some things can never be truly forgotten, and he can't leave them behind no matter what. 

 

"Maybe it's because you've already done the worst you could do to me; there's nothing left to really frighten me. I've seen the worst in you many times. I'm used to it."

 

Will sighs as he stares into his eyes, and sees his ultimately not sympathetic enough expression: Hannibal is trying to come to terms with what he did to him in the past, to see it from his point of view and really manage to understand how it impacted him: but, in the end, he can't, not completely.

 

And he'll never be truly able to: Hannibal has done terrible things in his life, but still can't see that hiding his illness from him, lying and driving him almost crazy is the worst possible violence he could ever inflict on him. 

 

So he simply accepts his words without contesting them, and returns to nab at his neck to distract both of them from their thoughts, to feel Will move and relax under him the more his touches intensify, teeth teasing his skin in a sensual and playful way: Will feels drawn to it despite everything, loses himself in it every single time. He's in love with the cruel ways of Hannibal's love, with the monsters and the wonders what they share awaken.

 

His wounds have turned into scars, into symbols of this terrible affection that runs between them; and he kisses them all every day, worships them with infinite devotion, like they're a mark of holiness that elevates him above the rest of the world: his cruel god smiles down to him from his heaven, and branded him as his.

 

A thought comes to him while Hannibal is running his hands under his shirt, caressing his belly while humming against his throat.

 

"There are other ways to have me inside of you, you know?"

 

He can feel himself blush at his own boldness, but his voice still acquires that seductive and erotic tone that's enough to force Hannibal to stop what he's doing and look at him, eyes ravenous and curios that seem to want to sink their teeth into him to munch off bite after bite of him.

 

Will feels a little light headed under that scrutiny, but instead of looking and shying away from the implication of his words, he reaches forward to caress his back, cupping his ass and moving his hips to press his half hard erection against Hannibal's.

 

Hannibal's amused laugh echoes between them, runs through his vein like the sweetest kind of poison, racing to reach his heart and melt it, together with his insides and the rest of him: he feels liquid under him, crushed and manipulated by his own lust and desire, like he's raw material that's only waiting for the man's expert hands to be given a form. And yet, right now he holds all Hannibal wants right in the palm of his hand, and desires nothing more than to give it to him, to try to appease his appetites in all the ways he can think of.

 

"What are you suggesting?”

 

Will grins, relaxing against the couch and inhaling deeply, trying to be as seductive as he can: it's probably worrisome that their most violent conversations always seem to lead directly to sex, as if they were trying to exorcize death through it, channeling it into life to wash away blood with their kisses, cruelty with passion.

 

The first time they had sex, Will remembers with an extreme clarity how horrified he had been by the way Hannibal touched it: his gentleness, the immense care of every contact was nearly too much for him to handle. He expected violence, to be defiled and used, owned and conquered, but none of that happened: and he wanted to be disgusted by those soft kisses, by the light caresses and the kind words he whispered to him: but he was only attracted more. 

 

He wanted to sink into tho feelings, and right then he realized that he was never going to stop wanting more of it.

 

“You could let me fuck you: I would be inside of you, moving in you; you could feel my body reverberating through yours. We'd be as close as we could.”

 

Hannibal considers in silence.

 

“We haven't done it in quite some time.”

 

From the way his voice sounds, with just a small hint of breathlessness, Will already knows his apparent stalling is nothing but a perfectly crafted act. He kisses the corner of his mouth, grabs his hair and slowly massages his scalp, until the man moans and relaxes under his attentions.

 

Hannibal has no preferred role during sex: but Will enjoys being fucked more than fucking, so they usual stick to that. He remembers the few times that happened before: the man was a spectacle under him, so receptive and pliant, so immerse in his own pleasure to forget the world. And it gave him so much power to have him like this under him, at his mercy, dependent on him to achieve his pleasure.

 

Will wants to taste that feeling again.

 

“Do you want me inside of you?”

 

He asks more forcefully this time, in a low whisper he breathes right on his lips, and Hannibal stares at him in absolute awe, completely seduced by the expression in his eyes; Will can feel his desire seep through their bodies, melting them together, creating a new bond between them.

 

Living with Hannibal is like being surrounded by blurred lines, never being able to know for sure where the edge of the cliff they're walking on really is and being forced to get used to the constant fear of falling down and disappear into the nothingness they created together.

 

But now that's exactly what Will wants more than anything: to sink into him and forget the boundaries between them, to be so close to him he'll be able to touch the very core of his being and be burned by its heat.

 

Hannibal regards him with nothing short of pure devotion: he plays so often and being God, but most of the times, Will is the one and only divinity he could accept to worship, the one he gets down on his knees for and offers his heart to.

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Hannibal whispers it against his throat, and Will knows, and almost hopes, he's resisting the temptation of ripping it out.

 

\-----

 

They take their time now, focusing entirely on each other and on the act, with nothing coming in between them to distract them: there's no rushed humping, no secrets whispered against each other skins; Will takes Hannibal to bed and slowly and meticulously strips him of his armor and tears him apart.

 

They take their time now, focusing entirely on each other and on the act, with nothing coming in between them to distract them from this one specific moment: there's no rushed humping, no secrets whispered against each other skins; Will takes Hannibal to bed and slowly and meticulously strips him of his armor and tears him apart.

 

Hannibal responds beautifully to every touch, every kiss: he moans and allows himself to be spoiled when Will eats him out while he's on his hands and knees; watching him like that, almost helpless in a sense, is intoxicating, because the man always looks so overwhelmingly threatening and all powerful: except now, when he seems to be falling to pieces under the pressure of Will's hands and tongue.

 

Will caresses his back, his legs, spreads his ass and runs his hands everywhere he can reach, like he's trying to melt his skin with the warmth of his fingers, so they'll be truly conjoined at last. The man leans in, allows him everything: he's abandoned on the bed, the perfect image of lust and hedonism, enjoying every second of it as fully as he can.

 

They kiss from time to time, looking at each other with at the same time curiosity and devotion. He feels so good like that, so warm and pliant and completely his.

 

Hannibal brings him down for a harsh and deep kiss, when he finally pushes inside of him, and the both moan into it, not stopping, but feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure for a few moments.

 

His body is tight, but he adjusts quickly, pushing back to get more friction and a better angle.

 

"Are you okay? Do you like this?"

 

Hannibal nods absently, following Will's thrusts with his hips with a slow, rocking motion: he's so attentive even now, so aware of everything his body is feeling, analyzing every sensation with the same attention he reserves to all other subjects; it's almost clinical, but Will catches sight of how fast his breathing is getting, of the liquid passion reflected in his eyes.

 

"Yes, I do, Will.”

 

Will kisses him.

 

“Tell me if I'm hurting you.”

 

Hannibal snorts, but he's still smiling and that's oddly encouraging.

 

“You don't have to be considerate and gentle: I am sure you know that."

 

Will laughs, as he languidly runs his hands on his chest, pinching his nipples and watching with a grin on his lips how the expression on Hannibal's face changes at every movement.

 

"I know, but I want to make you feel good, I want you to enjoy every second of this. I want to fuck myself inside of you, so your body will remember exactly what I feel like."

 

Hannibal inhales deeply, closing his eyes and abandoning himself under him.

 

Sex came later in their relationship, and it assumed different meanings and weights through the evolution it: it used to all about manipulation, about exposing their weaknesses and their most secret desires. Now it's one of those moments where they can finally found peace, where they can forget their nightmares, how afraid they are, how terrifying what they have is.

 

Hannibal makes love to him like there's nothing else in the world he needs, like Will's body is an oasis in the middle of the desert and he's starving for rest, for love and companionship. But also like he's slowly tearing him apart, putting the same gentleness in both acts. Will inside him finds a new reflection of himself, of who they are when they are together: he wants to sink his fingers into his flesh, wants to bury himself so deep into him he won't be able to disentangle himself anymore.

 

There's at the same time violence and care in the way they touch: all the marks they leave on each other are a blessing, a holy communion they share through blood and sex.

 

Hannibal's arms are shaking somehow, when he cups his face with both hands and gently strokes his features, examining his bone structure with the tips of his fingers, caressing his patchy beard and his mouth, putting two digits inside and watching Will suck on them while he strokes his cock and keeps thrusting hard into him.

 

“You are the most perfect image of sin right now, Will. I want you to burn me to my core, to destroy me with your fire.”

 

Will sees reflected in his eyes a new and more desperate need for closeness: he's not thinking about devouring him now, but about being devoured himself, about how Will would consume him if he could, what it would feel like, if he would walk meekly towards his fate, offering himself to him.

 

Would it be the same? Will finds it difficult to focus on that question as the orgasm starts building up inside of him, as he starts thrusting harder and harder inside him, watching Hannibal's face transfigure with pleasure, but in one moment of complete lucidity, he realizes that it doesn't matter who's consuming who anymore: they have both done it already somehow, and they carry the other inside of them.

 

Hannibal comes first, nails buried deep into Will's lower back, biting his lips until he almost draws blood: he looks spent after, almost broken, like all pleasure he felt was too much. He looks completely exposed, whimpering as he kisses Will, biting his lips and moaning again when he finally comes as well.

 

Will runs his hands through his hair, gently lulls him as he finishes inside of him, groaning against his shoulder and biting down on it.

 

This is what they are: a mess of limbs, of wounds and scars, of feelings too big to be properly expressed, all tied together by the simple truth that they can't survive on their own anymore, because they're have to cut out so much of who they are that nearly nothing would remain.

 

I'm not whole without you, Will wants to whisper against his lips, scream in the deafening silence that follows their orgasms. But instead, he lets Hannibal hold him close to his heart, kiss his forehead and keep him with him.

 

\-----

 

Hannibal is nearly falling asleep about an half an hour later, with Will wrapped around him, head lying on chest, breathing softly in the serene atmosphere that surrounds them: he know he should never feel completely safe in that house and bed, but he's sated now, full and content with what he has, and doesn't have the energy to think about anything else except for the warmth of Hannibal's body under his.

 

The man has his eyes closed, the apparently perfect image of normalcy: how his hair surrounds his face gives him such a strongly domestic aura, the same he can feel when he wakes up in the morning and finds him still sound asleep, when he watches him make breakfast or complain about something he read on his ipad; he can't help the tenderness those images evoke in him, and he perfectly understands that those coexist with the horrors he knows he's capable of.

 

Will tried to give a name to what he feels for him many times, usually to no avail. There's no name for what Hannibal is, after all, and it only makes there cannot be one either for what they have together.

 

It's an obsession, a deep and terrible adoration, the savage desire to destroy and the volition to create: he used to dream of getting married, of meeting a gentle and beautiful woman, of falling in love with her and having a family, a normal life. Now he can't imagine anyone in his life other than him, the man who destroyed all his hopes for a future he was never going to have anyway.

 

Sometimes Will wishes he could split his life perfectly in two, separating the before he knew him, from the after. But it's not that easy, and it's never going to be. He changed, yes, he's not the same man he was when he met Hannibal's in Crawford's office: he hates some of those changes, because it feels like they ended up burning away certain parts of him that he's not sure if he misses or not. 

 

But now he has a happiness, or something very close to it, that he can't imagine finding with anybody else.

 

Hannibal is a part of him, he's in his blood: and he wants him there.

 

“I love you.”

 

The man stirs and groans softly, but has no other reactions for a long moment: all Will can hear is his heart beating hard in his chest, and he can feel himself flush as embarrassment creeps inside of him. Then Hannibal very slowly opens his eyes, pointing them straight on him: he doesn't look surprised or impressed by his words, apparently at least, but Will can tell from his body language and by the look in his eyes how surprised he is, how deeply his words shocked and impacted him.

 

He sighs, and Will knows he's building up his strength to find a suitable reply, he's focusing on registering in his memory palace his exact tone and expression, to be able to keep it there safely forever.

 

Will holds his breath, waiting for him to do something, anything that would shatter the silence around them. He never thought he could say such a thing, not to somebody like him, because no words seems enough to define their relationship, and trying to find one would be almost like cheapening it.

 

But now that those words have escaped his lips, he realizes how natural it was: it was so simple. They deserved to hear them, or at least he deserved to let them out: the truth is that he loves Hannibal, he really does and always did, that the whole reason why he's in this bed right now is out of love, of need to be close to him.

 

It doesn't mean being blind to the monster he is: it means accepting the man behind the monster and loving both sides at the same time.

 

“You have nothing to say?”

 

Hannibal smiles, then brings him down to kiss him.

 

“How hard it is to decide how to reply to something so important: I have so many words running through my head. If I said I reciprocate your feelings, chances are you wouldn't even believe me.”

 

Will relaxes against him: the man is a calculating predator that is always capable of planning far ahead, of making the most and best of what he's given. But now he does look lost, and he realizes just how alike they are in that feeling.

 

“I would know if you were lying; so you wouldn't even think about doing that. It would only work against you.”

 

Hannibal nods absently, as he runs a hand through his curls, closing his eyes for a long moment: Wills folds himself at his side so he properly look at him and study all his reactions. As much as the man his the one who is usually more forthcoming in his demonstration of affection, he's also the one who rarely expresses any real feelings.

 

He's in love with everything that catches his eyes positively, Will knows that, but it's difficult to dig under the surface and finds out what he's really feeling.

 

It's odd to see him like this, trying so hard to understand himself, looking inside his heart to give him an answer: in another setting and another moment, he would've enjoyed the sight a lot more, reverting and delighting in the power he has, in the discomfort he's causing. Now he takes his hand, entangling their fingers together: he saw too much of Hannibal's weaknesses and open wounds tonight to desire to add fresh ones.

 

All he wants is a quiet moment of truth and of closeness between them.

 

“I have never considered myself a man prone to something like falling in love: and I believe what I feel for you goes way beyond this simple definition. I hate to put it into words because there nothing quite like it in any language I know, there is no term I could use that would do it justice, and I know quite a few. You are a complicated subject for me, your presence in my life, the very fact that you're still breathing is sometimes incomprehensible to me: I hate the hold you have on me as much as you hate the one I have on you, I hate seeing myself changing because of you.”

 

“And yet here we are.”

 

Hannibal smiles, but without looking at him: he's staring at the painted ceiling, at the cloud and stars and old deities represented on it. Does he wishes he could go back to that divine detachment? That he could just erase whatever Will did to him?

 

Will sometimes does.

 

“Yes; here we are. If I told you I loved you, would you say: if you truly love me, promise me you'll stop? Would you use my confession against me to get what you want?”

 

He considers it for a long moment: it feels like their whole relationship has led them to this one specific moment. Will knows his answer right away, and it brings a smile to his lips to see how attentively Hannibal is waiting for it.

 

There is so much they'll never truly manage to solve, so much they'll never properly address: so much they'll share in the future that would make their first, hard and painful days more and more a distant memory.

 

One they'll never forget, but that they can overcome together.

 

Will shakes his head.

 

“Not in thousands of years.”

 

Hannibal stares at him for a long moment, before laughing softly, genuinely surprised and amused by his boldness.

 

“Not in thousands of years...”

 

He takes a deep breath with his eyes closed, holding Will's hands in his a little bit too hard: that simple gesture of defiance makes him smile.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Will thought it would have been much different to hear him say that, a lot weirder and uncomfortable: but, he realizes that it doesn't. It gives him the feeling of finally understanding what place he occupies in his life, and of finally being able to take it.

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

Hannibal kisses him, and it feels like coming home.


End file.
